Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Twelve

AT FIRST, I don’t realize anything is wrong. I wake up feeling extremely bleary — to see Luke handing me a cup of tea.

“Why don’t you check the messages?” he says, giving me a kiss, and heads toward the shower. After a few sips of tea, I lift the telephone receiver and press the star button.

“You have twenty-three messages,” says the telephone voice — and I gape at it in astonishment. Twenty-three?

Perhaps they’re all job offers! is my first thought. Perhaps it’s people calling from Hollywood! In great excitement I press the button to hear the first one. But it’s not a job offer — it’s Suze — and she’s sounding really hassled.

“Bex, please ring me. As soon as you get this. It’s… it’s really urgent. Bye.”

The voice asks me if I’d like to hear my remaining messages — and for a moment I hesitate. But Suze did sound pretty desperate — and I remember with a twinge of guilt that she called last night, too. I dial the number — and to my surprise, it clicks onto her answer machine.

“Hi! It’s me!” I say as soon as Suze’s voice has finished speaking. “Well, you’re not in, so I hope whatever it is has sorted itself—”

“Bex!” Suze’s voice practically bursts my eardrum. “Oh my God, Bex, where have you been?”

“Out,” I say puzzledly. “And then asleep. Suze, is everything—”

“Bex, I never said those things!” she interrupts, sounding distressed. “You have to believe me. I’d never say anything like that. They just… twisted everything round. I told your mum, I didn’t have any idea—”

“My mum?” I say in puzzlement. “Suze, slow down. What are you talking about?”

There’s silence.

“Oh God,” says Suze. “Bex, haven’t you seen it?”

“Seen what?” I say.

“The Daily World,” says Suze. “I… I thought you got all the British papers.”

“We do,” I say, rubbing my dry face. “But they’ll still be outside the door. Is there… is there something about me?”

“No,” says Suze a little too quickly. “No. I mean… there is this one very tiny thing. But it’s not worth looking at. I really wouldn’t bother. In fact — throw The Daily World away, I would. Just… put it in the bin, without even opening it.”

“There’s something nasty, isn’t there?” I say apprehensively. “Do my legs look really fat?”

“It’s really nothing!” says Suze. “Nothing! So anyway… have you been to Rockefeller Center yet? It’s supposed to be great! Or FAO Schwarz? Or…”

“Suze, stop,” I interrupt. “I’m going to go and get it. I’ll call you back.”

“OK, look, Bex, just remember,” says Suze in a rush. “Hardly anyone reads The Daily World. You know, like about three people. And it’s tomorrow’s fish-and-chips. And everyone knows the newspapers make up complete lies…”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I’ll remember that. And don’t worry, Suze! These stupid little things don’t faze me!”

But as I put the phone down, my hand is trembling slightly. What on earth can they have said about me? I hurry to the door, grab the pile of papers, and cart them all back to the bed. I seize hold of The Daily World and feverishly start to leaf through it. Page after page… but there’s nothing there. I go back to the beginning and leaf through more carefully, looking at all the tiny box items — and there really is no mention of me at all. I lean back on my pillows, bemused. What on earth is Suze going on about? Why on earth is she so—

And then I spot the center double-page spread. A single folded sheet, lying on the bed, which must have fallen out as I grabbed hold of the paper. Very slowly I reach for it. I open it. And it’s as though someone’s punched me in the stomach.

There’s a picture of me. It’s a photo I don’t recognize — not very flattering. I’m walking along, in some street… A New York street, I realize with a lurch. And I’m holding lots of shopping bags. And there’s a picture of Luke, in a circle. And a little picture of Suze. And the headline reads…

I can’t even tell you what it says. I can’t even say it. It’s… it’s too awful.

It’s a huge article, spanning the whole center spread. As I read it, my heart is thudding; my head feels hot and cold. It’s so nasty. It’s so… personal. Halfway through I can’t stand it anymore. I close the paper, and stare ahead, breathing hard, feeling as though I might throw up.

Then almost immediately, with trembling hands, I open it again. I have to see exactly what they’ve said. I have to read every horrible, humiliating line.

When I’ve finally finished, I sit, breathing hard, trying to keep control. I can’t quite believe this is really happening. This paper has already been printed millions of times. It’s too late to stop it. In Britain, I suddenly realize, this has been out for hours. My parents will have seen it. Everyone I know will have seen it. I’m powerless.

As I’m sitting there, the telephone gives a shrill ring, and I jump with fright. After a moment it rings again, and I stare at it in terror. I can’t answer. I can’t talk to anybody, not even Suze.

The phone rings for the fourth time, and Luke strides out of the bathroom, a towel round his waist and his hair slicked back.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” he says shortly, and grabs for the receiver. “Hello? Yes, Luke Brandon here.”

I feel a swoop of fear, and wrap the duvet more tightly around me.

“Right,” Luke is saying. “Fine. I’ll see you then.” He puts the phone down and scribbles something on a pad of paper.

“Who was that?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“A secretary from JD Slade,” he says, putting his pen down. “Change of venue.”

He starts to get dressed, and I say nothing. My hand tightens around the Daily World page. I want to show him… but I don’t want to show him. I don’t want him to read those horrible things about me. But I can’t let him see it from someone else.

I can’t sit here forever, saying nothing. I close my eyes — then take a deep breath and say, “Luke, there’s a thing about me in the paper.”

“Good,” says Luke absently, doing up his tie. “I thought you might get a bit of publicity. Which paper?”

“It’s… it’s not good,” I say, and lick my dry lips. “It’s really awful.”

Luke looks at me properly and sees my expression.

“Oh, Becky,” he says, “it can’t be that bad. Come on, show me. What does it say?” He holds out his hand, but I don’t move.

“It’s just… really horrible. And there’s a great big picture—”

“Did you have a bad hair day?” says Luke teasingly, and reaches for his jacket. “Becky, no piece of publicity is ever 100 percent perfect. You’re always going to find something to fret about, whether it’s your hair, or something you said…”

“Luke!” I say despairingly. “It’s nothing like that. Just… have a look.”

Slowly I unfold the paper and give it to Luke. He takes it cheerfully — but as he gazes at it, his smile slowly disappears.

“What the fuck— Is that me?” He glances at me briefly, and I swallow, not daring to say anything. Then he scans the page while I watch nervously.

“Is this true?” he says at last. “Any of it?”

“N-no!” I stammer. “At least… not… not all of it. Some of it is…”

“Are you in debt?”

I meet his gaze, feeling my face turn crimson.

“A… a little bit. But I mean, not like they say… I mean, I don’t know anything about a summons…”

“Tuesday afternoon!” He hits the paper. “For Christ’s sake. You were at the Guggenheim. Find your ticket, we’ll prove you were there, get a retraction—”

“I… Actually… Luke…” He looks up and I feel a lurch of pure fear. “I didn’t go to the Guggenheim. I… I went… shopping.”

“You went…” He stares at me — then silently starts to read again.

When he’s finished he stares ahead expressionlessly.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him.

He looks as grim as I feel — and for the first time this morning I feel tears pricking at my eyes.

“I know,” I say shakily. “It’s awful. They must have been following me. They must have been there all along, watching me, spying on me…” I look at him for a response, but he’s just staring straight ahead. “Luke, don’t you have anything to say? Do you realize—”

“Becky, do you realize?” he interrupts. He turns toward me — and at his expression I feel the blood draining from my face. “Do you realize quite how bad this is for me?”

“I’m really sorry,” I gulp. “I know you hate being in the paper…”

“It’s not a bloody question of—” He stops himself, and says more calmly, “Becky, do you realize how this is going to make me look? Today of all fucking days?”

“I… I didn’t…” I whisper.

“I have to go into a meeting in an hour’s time and convince a stuffy, conservative New York investment bank that I’m fully in control of every aspect of my business and personal life. They’ll all have seen this. I’ll be a joke!”

“But of course you’re in control!” I say in alarm. “Luke, surely they’ll realize… surely they won’t—”

“Listen,” says Luke, turning round. “Do you know what the perception of me is in this city? The general perception here — for some inexplicable reason — is that I’m losing my touch.”

“Losing your touch?” I echo in horror.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Luke takes a deep, controlled breath. “What I’ve been doing over the last few days is working my fucking arse off to convince these people that their perception is wrong. That I’m on top of it. That I have the media taped. And now…” He hits the paper sharply and I wince.

“Maybe… maybe they won’t have seen it.”

“Becky, they see everything,” says Luke. “That’s their job. That’s—”

He breaks off as the phone rings. After a pause, he picks it up.

“Hi, Michael. Ah. You’ve seen it. Yes, I know. Unfortunate timing. All right. See you in a sec.” He puts down the phone and reaches for his briefcase, without looking at me.

I feel cold and shivery. What have I done? I’ve wrecked everything. Phrases from the article keep popping into my mind, making me feel sick. Feckless Becky… hypocritical Becky… And they’re right. They’re all right.

When I look up, Luke’s closing his briefcase with a snap.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” At the door he hesitates, and turns round, looking suddenly confused. “But I don’t understand. If you weren’t at the Guggenheim — where did you get the book you gave me?”

“At the museum shop,” I whisper. “On Broadway.”

“But the sparkle stuff on your face. You said it was—”

“I… I had a makeover. Luke, I’m so sorry… I…”

I tail away into a hideous silence. I can feel my heart thumping, the blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know what to say, how to redeem myself.

Luke stares at me blankly, then gives a brief nod, turns, and reaches for the door handle.

When the door has closed behind him, I sit quite still for a while, staring straight ahead. I can’t quite believe all this is really happening. Just a few hours ago we were toasting each other with Bellinis. I was wearing my Vera Wang dress and we were dancing to Cole Porter and I was giddy with happiness. And now…

The phone starts to ring, but I don’t move. Only on the eighth ring do I stir myself and pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Is that Becky Bloomwood?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously.

“Becky, it’s Fiona Taggart from the Daily Herald. I’m so glad I’ve tracked you down! Becky, we’d be really interested in running a two-part feature on you and your… little problem, shall we call it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter.

“Do you deny it, then?”

“No comment,” I say, and thrust the phone down with a trembling hand. Immediately it rings again, and I pick it up.

“No comment, all right?” I exclaim. “No comment! No—”

“Becky? Darling?”

“Mum!” At the sound of her voice I feel myself dissolving into tears. “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry,” I gulp. “It’s so awful. I’ve messed everything up. I just didn’t know… I didn’t realize…”

“Becky!” comes her voice down the line, familiar and reassuring. “Love! You don’t have to be sorry! It’s those scumbag reporters who should be sorry. Making up all those stories. Putting words in people’s mouths. Poor Suzie phoned us up, very upset. You know, she gave that girl three bourbon biscuits and a KitKat, and this is the thanks she gets. A load of outlandish lies! I mean, pretending to be from the council tax. They should be prosecuted!”

“Mum…” I close my eyes, almost unable to say it. “It’s not all lies. They… they didn’t make everything up.” There’s a short silence, and I can hear Mum breathing anxiously down the line. “I am kind of in a… a bit of debt.”

“Well,” says Mum after a pause — and I can hear her gearing herself up to be positive. “Well. So what? Even if you are, is it any of their business?” She pauses, and I hear a voice in the background. “Exactly! Dad says, ‘if the American economy can be in debt by billions and still survive, then so can you.’ ”

God, I love my parents. If I told them I’d committed murder they’d soon find some reason why the victim had it coming to him.

“I suppose so,” I gulp. “But it’s Luke’s big meeting today, and all his investors will have seen it…”

“So what? There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Now you keep your chin up, Becky! Best foot forward. Suzie told us you’ve got a screen test today. Is that right?”

“Yes. I just don’t know what time. The producer’s supposed to call me.”

“Well, then. You put a nice brave face on. Run yourself a bath and have a nice cup of tea and put three sugars in it. And a brandy, Dad says. And if any reporters ring up, just tell them to get lost.”

“Have you had any reporters bothering you?” I say in alarm.

“A chap came round asking questions this morning,” says Mum breezily. “But Dad went for him with the hedge trimmer.”

In spite of myself I giggle.

“I’d better go, Mum. But I’ll call you later. And… thanks.”

As I put down the phone, I feel a million times better. Mum’s right. I’ve just got to be positive and go to my screen test and do as well as I possibly can. And Luke probably did overreact a little bit. He’ll probably come back in a much better mood.

I ring up the hotel reception and tell them to hold all calls except from HLBC. Then I run my bath, empty a whole bottle of Uplift bath oil from Sephora into it, and wallow for half an hour in rose geranium. As I dry myself I put on MTV and dance around the room to Janet Jackson — and by the time I’m dressed in my knock-’em-dead outfit from Barneys I’m feeling pretty positive, if a little wobbly around the knees. I can do this. I can.

They haven’t called yet, so I pick up the phone and ring down to reception.

“Hi,” I say. “Just checking if HLBC have called for me this morning.”

“I don’t believe so,” says the girl pleasantly.

“Are you sure? They didn’t leave a message?”

“No, ma’am.”

“OK. Thanks.”

I put the phone down and think for a few moments. Well — that’s all right, I’ll just call them. I mean, I need to know what time the test is, don’t I? And Kent told me to call her anytime, whatever I needed. She said, don’t even hesitate.

I take her business card out of my bag and carefully punch in the number.

“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Kent Garland’s office, this is her assistant, Megan. How can I help you?”

“Hello!” I say. “It’s Rebecca Bloomwood here. Could I speak to Kent, please?”

“Kent’s in a meeting right now,” says Megan pleasantly. “Could I take a message?”

“Well, I’m just phoning to see what time my screen test is today,” I say. And just saying it gives me a surge of confidence. Who cares about the crappy Daily World, anyway? I’m going to be on American television. I’m going to be a huge celebrity.

“I see,” says Megan. “Rebecca, if you could just hold on a moment…”

She puts me on hold, and I find myself listening to a tinny version of “Heard It through the Grapevine.” It comes to an end, and a voice tells me how important my call is to the HLBC Corporation… and then it starts again… when suddenly Megan is back.

“Hi, Rebecca? I’m afraid Kent’s going to have to postpone the screen test. She’ll give you a call if she wants to rearrange.”

“What?” I say, staring blankly at my made-up face in the mirror. “Postpone? But… why? Do you know when it’ll be rescheduled?”

“I’m not sure,” says Megan pleasantly. “Kent’s very busy right now with the new series of Consumer Today.”

“But… but that’s what the screen test is for! The new series of Consumer Today!” I take a deep breath, trying not to sound too anxious. “Do you know when she’ll rearrange it for?”

“I really couldn’t say. Her diary’s very full at the moment… and then she has a two-week vacation…”

“Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I’d really like to talk to Kent, please. It’s quite important. Couldn’t you get her for me? Just for a second.”

There’s a pause — then Megan sighs.

“I’ll see if I can fetch her.”

The tinny song begins again — then suddenly Kent is on the line.

“Hi, Becky. How are you?”

“Hi!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I’m fine. I just thought I’d see what was happening today. About the screen test?”

“Right,” says Kent thoughtfully. “Tell the truth, Becky, a couple of issues have come up, which we need to think about. OK? So we’ll be passing on the screen test until we’re a little more decided about things.”

Suddenly I feel paralyzed by fear. Oh, please, no.

She’s seen The Daily World, hasn’t she? That’s what she’s talking about. I clutch the receiver tightly, my heart thudding, desperately wanting to explain it all; wanting to tell her that it all sounds far worse than it really is. That half of it isn’t even true; that it doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do…

But I just can’t bring myself to. I can’t bring myself even to mention it.

“So we’ll be in touch,” Kent says. “Apologies for putting you out today — I was going to have Megan call you later…”

“That’s all right!” I say, trying to sound bright and easy. “So… when do you think we might reschedule?”

“I’m really not sure… Sorry, Becky. I’m going to have to run. There’s a problem on the set. But thanks for calling. And enjoy the rest of your trip!”

The phone goes silent and I slowly put it down.

I’m not having my screen test. They don’t want me, after all.

And I bought a new outfit and everything.

I can feel my breath coming quicker and quicker — and for an awful moment I think I might cry.

But then I think of Mum — and force myself to lift my chin. I’m not going to let myself collapse. I’m going to be strong and positive. HLBC aren’t the only fish in the sea. There are plenty of other people who want to snap me up. Plenty! I mean, look at… look at Greg Walters. He said he wanted me to meet his head of development, didn’t he? Well, maybe we can fix something up for today. Yes! Perhaps by the end of today, I’ll have my own show!

Quickly I find the number and dial it with trembling hands — and to my joy, I get straight through. This is more like it. Straight to the top.

“Hi, Greg? It’s Becky Bloomwood here.”

“Becky! Great to hear from you!” says Greg, sounding a little distracted. “How’re you doing?”

“Erm… fine! It was really nice to meet you yesterday,” I say, aware that my voice is shrill with nerves. “And I was very interested in all your ideas.”

“Well, that’s great! So — are you enjoying your trip?”

“Yes! Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath. “Greg, you were saying yesterday that I should meet up with your head of development—”

“Absolutely!” says Greg. “I know Dave would adore to meet you. We both think you have huge potential. Huge.”

Relief floods over me. Thank God. Thank—

“So next time you’re in town,” Greg is saying, “you give me a call, and we’ll set something up.”

I stare at the phone, prickly with shock. Next time I’m in town? But that could be months. It could be never. Doesn’t he want to—

“Promise you’ll do that?”

“Erm… OK,” I say, trying to keep the thickening dismay out of my voice. “That would be great!”

“And maybe we’ll meet up when I next come over to London.”

“OK!” I say brightly. “I hope so. Well… see you soon. And good to meet you!”

“Great to meet you too, Becky!”

I’m still smiling my bright fake smile as the phone goes dead. And this time I just can’t stop the tears from gathering in my eyes and dripping slowly down my face, taking my makeup with them.

I sit alone in the hotel room for hours. Lunchtime comes and goes, but I can’t face any food. The only positive thing I do is listen to the messages on the phone and delete them all except one from Mum, which I listen to over and over again. It’s the one she must have left as soon as she got The Daily World.

“Now,” she’s saying. “There’s a bit of fuss here over a silly article in the paper. Don’t take any notice of it, Becky. Just remember, that picture will be going in a million dog baskets tomorrow.”

For some reason that makes me laugh each time I hear it. So I sit there, half-crying, half-laughing, letting a pool of wet tears gather on my skirt and not even bothering to wipe it away.

I want to go home. For what seems like an eternity I sit on the floor, rocking backward and forward, letting my thoughts circle round and round. Going over the same ground over and over again. How could I have been so stupid? What am I going to do now? How can I face anyone, ever again?

I feel as though I’ve been on a crazy roller coaster ever since I got to New York. Like some sort of magical Disney ride — except instead of whizzing through space, I’ve been whizzing through shops and hotels and interviews and lunches, surrounded by light and glitter and voices telling me I’m the next big thing.

And I believed every moment of it. I had no idea it wasn’t real.

When, at long last, I hear the door opening, I feel almost sick with relief. I have a desperate urge to go and throw myself into Luke’s arms, burst into tears, and listen to him tell me it’s all right. But as he comes in, I feel my whole body contract in fear. His expression is taut and set; he looks as though his face is carved out of stone.

“Hi,” I say at last. “I… I wondered where you were.”

“I had lunch with Michael,” says Luke shortly. “After the meeting.” He takes off his coat and puts it carefully onto a hanger while I watch fearfully.

“So…” I hardly dare ask the question. “Did it go well?”

“Not particularly well, no.”

My stomach gives a nervous flip. What does that mean? Surely… surely it can’t be…

“Is it… off?” I manage at last.

“Good question,” says Luke. “The people from JD Slade say they need more time.”

“Why do they need time?” I say, licking my dry lips.

“They have a few reservations,” says Luke evenly. “They didn’t specify exactly what those reservations were.”

He pulls off his tie roughly and starts to unbutton his shirt. He’s not even looking at me. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to see my face.

“Do you…” I swallow. “Do you think they’d seen the piece?”

“Oh, I think so,” says Luke. There’s an edge to his voice which makes me flinch. “Yes, I’m pretty sure they’d seen it.”

He’s fumbling over the last shirt button. Suddenly, in irritation, he rips it off.

“Luke,” I say helplessly. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know what I can do.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll do anything I can.”

“There’s nothing,” says Luke flatly.

He heads into the bathroom and after a few moments I hear the sound of the shower. I don’t move. I can’t even think. I feel paralyzed, as though I’m crouching on a ledge, trying not to slip.

Eventually Luke comes out and, without even acknowledging me, pulls on a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck. He pours himself a drink and there’s silence. Outside the window I can see right across Manhattan. The air is turning dusky and lights are coming on in windows everywhere, right into the distance. But I feel as though the world has shrunk to this room, these four walls. I haven’t been out all day, I abruptly realize.

“I didn’t have my screen test, either,” I say at last.

“Really.” Luke’s voice is flat and uninterested, and in spite of myself, I feel a faint spark of resentment.

“Don’t you even want to know why?” I say, tugging at the fringe of a cushion.

There’s a pause — then Luke says, as though with tremendous effort, “Why?”

“Because no one’s interested in me anymore.” I push my hair back off my head. “You’re not the only one who’s had a bad day, Luke. I’ve wrecked all my chances. No one wants to know me anymore.”

Humiliation creeps over me as I remember all the telephone messages I had to listen to this morning, politely canceling meetings and calling off lunches.

“And I know it’s all my own fault,” I continue. “I know that. But even so…” My voice starts to wobble treacherously, and I take a deep breath. “Things really aren’t great for me either.” I look up — but Luke hasn’t moved an inch. “You could… you could show a little sympathy.”

“Show a little sympathy,” echoes Luke evenly.

“I know I brought it on myself…”

“That’s right! You did!” Luke’s voice explodes in pent-up frustration, and at last he turns to face me. “Becky, no one forced you to go and spend that money! I mean, I know you like shopping. But for Christ’s sake. To spend like this… It’s bloody irresponsible. Couldn’t you have stopped yourself?”

“I don’t know!” I retort shakily. “Probably. But I didn’t know it was going to become such a… a bloody life-and-death issue, did I? I didn’t know I was being followed, Luke. I didn’t do this on purpose.” To my horror, I feel a tear making its way down my cheek. “You know, I didn’t hurt anybody. I didn’t kill anybody. Maybe I was a bit naive…”

“A bit naive. That’s the understatement of the year.”

“OK, so I was naive! But I didn’t commit any crime—”

“You don’t think throwing away opportunity is a crime?” says Luke furiously. “Because as far as I’m concerned…” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Becky! We both had it all. We had New York.” His hand clenches into a fist. “And now, look at us both. All because you’re so bloody obsessed by shopping—”

“Obsessed?” I cry. Suddenly I can’t stand his accusing gaze anymore. “I’m obsessed? What about you?”

“What do you mean?” he says dismissively.

“You’re obsessed by work! By making it in New York! The first thing you thought of when you saw that piece wasn’t me or… or how I was feeling, was it? It was how it affected you and your deal.” My voice rises tremulously. “All you care about is your own success, and I always come second. I mean, you didn’t even bother to tell me about New York until it was all decided! You just expected me to… to fall in line and do exactly what you wanted. No wonder Alicia said I was tagging along!”

“You’re not tagging along,” he says impatiently.

“Yes, I am! That’s the way you see me, isn’t it? As some little nobody, who has to be… to be slotted into your grand magnificent plan. And I was so stupid, I just went along with it…”

“I haven’t got time for this,” says Luke, standing up.

“You’ve never got time!” I say tearfully. “Suze has got more time for me than you have! You didn’t have time to come to Tom’s wedding; our holiday turned into a meeting; you didn’t have time to visit my parents…”

“So I don’t have a lot of time!” yells Luke suddenly, shocking me into silence. “So I can’t sit around making mindless tittle-tattle with you and Suze.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Do you realize how fucking hard I work? Do you have any idea how important this deal is?”

“Why is it important?” I hear myself shrieking. “Why is it so bloody important to make it in America? So you can impress your complete cow of a mother? Because if you’re trying to impress her, Luke, then I’d give up now! She’ll never be impressed. Never! I mean, she hasn’t even bothered to see you! God, you buy her an Herm`es scarf — and she can’t even rearrange her schedule to find five minutes for you!”

I break off, panting, into complete silence.

Oh fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

I dart a look at Luke, and he’s staring at me, his face ashen with anger.

“What did you call my mother?” he says slowly.

“Look, I… I didn’t mean it.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I just think… there’s got to be a sense of proportion in all this. All I did was a bit of shopping…”

“A bit of shopping,” echoes Luke scathingly. “A bit of shopping.” He gives me a long look — then, to my horror, heads to the huge cedar-wood wardrobe where I’ve been stashing all my stuff. He opens it silently and we both stare at the bags crammed to the ceiling.

And as I see it all, I feel a slight nausea overcoming me. All those things which seemed so vital when I bought them, all those things which I got so excited about… now just look like a great big pile of rubbish bags. I could barely even tell you what’s in any of the packages. It’s just… stuff. Piles and piles of stuff.

Without saying anything, Luke closes the door again, and I feel shame drenching over me like hot water.

“I know,” I say, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know. But I’m paying for it. I really am.”

I turn away, unable to meet his eye, and suddenly I just have to get out of this room. I have to get away from Luke, from myself in the mirror, from the whole horrendous day.

“I’ll… I’ll see you later,” I mutter and without looking back, head for the door.

The bar downstairs is dimly lit, soothing, and anonymous. I sink into a sumptuous leather chair, feeling weak and achy, as though I’ve got the flu. When a waiter comes up, I order an orange juice, then, as he’s walking away, change my order to a brandy. It arrives in a huge glass, warm and reviving, and I take a few sips — then look up as a shadow appears on the table in front of me. It’s Michael Ellis. I feel my heart sink. I really don’t feel up to talking.

“Hello,” he says. “May I?” He gestures to the chair opposite and I nod weakly. He sits down and gives me a kind look as I drain my glass. For a while, we’re both silent.

“I could be polite, and not mention it,” he says at last. “Or I could tell you the truth — which is that I was very sorry for you this morning. Your British papers are vicious. No one deserves that kind of treatment.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

A waiter appears, and Michael orders two more brandies without even asking.

“All I can tell you is, people aren’t dumb,” he says as the waiter walks off. “No one’s going to hold it against you.”

“They already have,” I say, staring at the table. “My screen test for HLBC was called off.”

“Ah,” says Michael after a pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No one wants to know me anymore. They’re all saying they’ve ‘decided to go another way’ or they ‘feel I don’t really suit the American market’ and… you know. Basically just, ‘Go away.’ ”

As I talk, I can feel my eyes filling up with hot tears. I so wanted to tell all this to Luke. I wanted to pour out all my woes — and for him to give me a huge, uncritical hug. Tell me it was their loss, not mine, like my parents would, or Suze would. But instead, he made me feel even worse about myself. He’s right — I’ve thrown everything away, haven’t I? I had opportunities people would kill for, and I wasted them.

Michael is nodding gravely.

“That happens,” he says. “I’m afraid these idiots are like a pack of sheep. One gets spooked, they all get spooked.”

“I just feel like I’ve wrecked everything,” I say, feeling my throat tightening. “I was going to get this amazing job, and Luke was going to be this huge success. It was all going to be perfect. And I’ve just chucked it all in the bin. It’s all my fault.”

To my horror, tears are spilling out of my eyes. I can’t stop them. And suddenly I give a huge sob. Oh, this is so embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m just a complete disaster.”

I bury my hot face in my hands and hope that Michael Ellis will tactfully slip away and leave me alone. Instead, I feel a hand on mine, and a handkerchief being slipped into my fingers. I wipe my face gratefully with the cool cotton and eventually raise my head.

“Thanks,” I gulp. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s quite all right,” says Michael calmly. “I’d be the same.”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

“You should see me when I lose a contract. I bawl my eyes out. My secretary has to run out for Kleenex every half hour.” He sounds so completely deadpan, I can’t help giving a little smile. “Now, drink your brandy,” he says, “and let’s get a few things straight. Did you invite The Daily World to take pictures of you with a long-range lens?”

“No.”

“Did you call them, offering an exclusive on your personal habits and suggesting a choice of offensive headlines?”

“No.” I can’t help giving a half-giggle.

“So.” He gives me a quizzical look. “This would be all your fault because…”

“I was naive. I should have realized. I should have… seen it coming. I was stupid.”

“You were unlucky.” He shrugs. “Maybe a little foolish. But you can’t heap all the blame on yourself.”

An electronic burble sounds from his pocket, and he reaches for his mobile.

“Excuse me a moment,” he says, and turns away. “Hi there.”

As he talks quietly into the phone I fold a paper coaster over and over. I want to ask him something — but I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Sorry about that,” says Michael. As he puts his phone away he gives me a rueful smile and shakes his head. “Never do business with friends.”

“Really? Was that a friend?”

Michael nods. “An old friend of the family. I did a campaign for him on credit as a favor. He promised when business picked up, he’d write a check. Well, as far as I’m concerned, business has picked up.”

“And he hasn’t paid you?” I take a sip of my drink, grateful to have something to distract me.

“He’s bought himself a nice new Mercedes.”

“That’s terrible!” I exclaim.

“That’s what friends are for. To exploit the shit out of you. I should have learned that by now.” He rolls his eyes humorously, but I’m still frowning.

“Do you know his family?”

“Sure. We used to spend Thanksgiving together.”

“Right.” I think for a moment. “So — have you mentioned this to his wife?”

“His wife?” Michael looks surprised, and I raise my eyebrows knowingly at him.

“I bet you if you told his wife, you’d get the money back.”

Michael stares at me for a second — then bursts into laughter.

“You know, I think you have something there. I’ll try it!” He drains his glass, then glances down at the mangled coaster in my fingers. “So. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Thanks. But there’s something I wanted to—” I take a deep breath. “Michael, was it my fault that Luke’s deal fell through? I mean, did the Daily World thing come into it?”

He gives me a sharp look. “We’re being frank here, right?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling a shaft of apprehension. “We’re being frank.”

“Then, to be honest, I can’t say it helped proceedings,” says Michael. “There were various… remarks made this morning. Some oh-so-funny jokes. I have to hand it to Luke, he took it all pretty well.”

I stare at him, feeling cold.

“Luke didn’t tell me that.”

Michael shrugs. “I wouldn’t have thought he particularly wanted to repeat any of the comments.”

“So it was my fault.”

“Uh-uh.” Michael shakes his head. “That’s not what I said.” He leans back in his chair. “Becky, if this deal had been really strong, it would have survived a bit of adverse publicity. My guess is JD Slade used your little… embarrassment as an excuse. There’s some bigger reason, which they’re keeping to themselves…”

“What?”

“Who knows? The rumor about Bank of London? A difference in business ethos? For some reason, they seem to have suffered a general loss of confidence in the whole idea.”

I stare at him, remembering what Luke said.

“Do people really think Luke’s losing his touch?”

“Luke is a very talented individual,” says Michael carefully. “But something’s gotten into him over this deal. He’s almost too driven. I told him this morning, he needs to prioritize. There’s obviously a situation with Bank of London. He should be talking to them. Reassuring them. Frankly, if he loses them, he’s in big trouble. And it’s not just them. Some problem or other seems to have cropped up with Provident Assurance — another huge client.” He leans forward. “If you ask me, he should be on a plane back to London this afternoon.”

“And what does he want to do?”

“He’s already setting up meetings with every New York investment bank I’ve ever heard of.” He shakes his head. “That boy seems fixated by making it in America.”

“I think he wants to prove something,” I mutter. To his mother, I nearly add.

“So Becky…” Michael gives me a kind look. “What are you going to do? Try to set up some more meetings?”

“No,” I say after a pause. “To be honest, I don’t think there’s any point.”

“So will you stay out here with Luke?”

An image of Luke’s frozen face flashes through my mind, and I feel a stab of pain.

“I don’t think there’s much point doing that, either.” I take a deep swig of wine and try to smile. “You know what? I think I’m just going to go home.”