Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Fourteen

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I don’t leave the house. I don’t answer the phone and I don’t talk to anyone. I feel physically raw, as though people’s gazes, or their questions, or even the sunlight, might hurt me. I need to be in a dark place, on my own. Suze has gone to Milton Keynes for a big sales and marketing conference with Hadleys, so I’m all alone in the flat. I order takeout, drink two bottles of white wine, and don’t once get out of my pajamas.

When Suze returns, I’m sitting on the floor in the sitting room where she left me, staring blankly at the television, stuffing KitKats into my mouth.

“Oh God,” she says, dropping her bag on the floor. “Bex, are you OK? I shouldn’t have left you on your own.”

“I’m fine!” I say, looking up and forcing my stiff face to twist into a smile. “How was the sales conference?”

“Well… it was really good, actually,” says Suze, looking abashed. “People kept congratulating me on the way my frames have been selling. They’d all heard of me! And they did a presentation of my new designs, and everybody loved them…”

“That’s really great, Suze,” I say, and reach up to squeeze her hand. “You deserve it.”

“Well. You know.” She bites her lip — then picks up an empty wine bottle from the floor and puts it on the table.

“So, did… Luke call?” she says hesitantly.

“No,” I say, after a long silence. “No, he didn’t.” I look at Suze, then look away again.

“What are you watching?” she says, as an ad for Diet Coke comes on.

“I’m watching Morning Coffee,” I say. “It’s the financial advice slot coming up next.”

“What?” Suze’s face creases in dismay. “Bex, let’s switch channels.” She reaches for the remote control, but I grab it.

“No!” I say, staring rigidly at the screen. “I want to see it.”

The familiar Morning Coffee music blasts out of the screen as the signature graphic of a cup of coffee appears and then melts away to a studio shot.

“Hello!” says Emma cheerily to camera. “Welcome back. And it’s time for us to introduce our new money expert, Clare Edwards!”

I stare at Clare’s familiar face, feeling a fresh humiliation seep over me. When they promoted her appearance earlier on I was so shocked I spilled my coffee on my hand. It still hurts.

“Who’s Clare Edwards?” says Suze, staring at the screen in distaste.

“I used to work with her on Successful Saving,” I say without moving my head. “She used to sit next to me.”

The camera pans away to show Clare sitting on the sofa opposite Emma, staring grimly back.

“She doesn’t look like much fun,” says Suze.

“She isn’t.”

“So, Clare,” says Emma brightly. “What’s your basic philosophy of money?”

“Do you have a catchphrase?” interjects Rory cheerfully.

“I don’t believe in catchphrases,” says Clare, giving Rory a disapproving look. “Personal finance isn’t a trivial matter.”

“Right!” says Rory. “Of course not. Erm… so — do you have any top tips for savers, Clare?”

“I don’t believe in futile and misleading generalizations,” says Clare. “All savers should choose a spread of investments suitable to their individual requirements and tax status.”

“Absolutely!” says Emma after a pause. “Right. Well — let’s go to the phones, shall we? And it’s Mandy from Norwich.”

As the first caller is put through, the phone in our sitting room rings.

“Hello?” says Suze, picking it up and zapping the sound on the television, “Ooh, hello, Mrs. Bloomwood. Do you want to speak to Becky?”

She raises her eyebrows at me and I wince back. I’ve only spoken to Mum and Dad briefly since my return. They know I’m not going to move to New York — but that’s all I’ve said them so far. I just can’t face telling them how badly everything else has turned out too.

“Becky, love, I was just watching Morning Coffee!” exclaims Mum. “What’s that girl doing, giving out financial advice?”

“It’s… it’s OK, Mum, don’t worry!” I say, feeling my nails dig into my palm. “They just… they got her to cover while I was away.”

“Well. They could have chosen someone better! She’s got a miserable face on her, hasn’t she?” Her voice goes muffled. “What’s that, Graham? Dad says, at least she shows how good you are! But surely, now that you’re back, they can let her go?”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” I say after a pause. “Contracts and… things.”

“So, when will you be back on? Because I know Janice will be asking.”

“I don’t know, Mum,” I say desperately. “Listen, I’ve got to go, OK? There’s someone at the door. But I’ll talk to you soon!”

I put down the phone and bury my head in my hands.

“What am I going to do?” I say hopelessly. “What am I going to do, Suze? I can’t tell them I’ve been fired. I just can’t.” To my dismay, tears squeeze out of the sides of my eyes. “They’re so proud of me. And I just keep letting them down.”

“You don’t let them down!” retorts Suze hotly. “It wasn’t your fault that stupid Morning Coffee completely overreacted. And I bet they’re regretting it now. I mean, look at her!”

She turns up the sound, and Clare’s voice drones sternly through the room. “Those who fail to provide for their own retirement are the equivalent of leeches on the rest of us.”

“I say,” says Rory. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“I mean, listen to her!” says Suze. “She’s awful!”

“Maybe she is,” I say after a pause. “But even if they get rid of her too they’ll never ask me back. It would be like saying they made a mistake.”

“They have made a mistake!”

The phone rings again and she looks at me. “Are you in or out?”

“Out. And you don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“OK…” She picks up the phone. “Hello? Sorry, Becky’s out at the moment.”

“Wendy, you’ve made every mistake possible,” Clare Edwards is saying on the screen. “Have you never heard of a deposit account? And as for remortgaging your house to buy a boat…”

“No, I don’t know when she’ll be back,” says Suze. “Would you like me to take a message?” She picks up a pen and starts writing. “OK… fine… yes. Yes, I’ll tell her. Thanks.”

“So,” I say as she puts the phone down. “Who was that?”

And I know it’s stupid — but as I look up at her, I can’t help feeling a hot flicker of hope. Maybe it was a producer from another show. Maybe it was someone wanting to offer me my own column. Maybe it was John Gavin, ringing to apologize and offer me free, unlimited overdraft facilities. Maybe it was the one phone call that will make everything all right.

“It was Mel. Luke’s assistant.”

“Oh.” I stare at her in apprehension. “What did she want?”

“Apparently some parcel has arrived at the office, addressed to you. From the States. From Barnes & Noble.”

I stare at her blankly — then, with a pang, suddenly remember that trip to Barnes & Noble I made with Luke. I bought a whole pile of coffee-table books, and Luke suggested I send them back on the company courier bill instead of lugging them around. It seems like a million years ago now.

“Oh yes, I know what that is.” I hesitate. “Did she… mention Luke?”

“No,” says Suze apologetically. “She just said pop in anytime you want. And she said she was really sorry about what happened… and if you ever want a chat, just call.”

“Right.” I hunch my shoulders up, hug my knees, and turn up the television volume.

For the next few days, I tell myself I won’t bother going. I don’t really want those books anymore. And I can’t quite cope with the thought of having to go in there — having to face all the curious looks from Luke’s staff, and hold my head up and pretend to be OK.

But then, gradually, I start to think I’d like to see Mel. She’s the only one I can talk to who really knows Luke, and it would be nice to have a heart-to-heart with her. Plus, she might have heard something of what’s going on in the States. I know Luke and I are effectively over, I know it’s really nothing to do with me anymore. But I still can’t help caring about whether he’s got his deal or not.

So four days later, at about six o’clock in the evening, I walk slowly toward the doors of Brandon Communications, my heart thumping. Luckily it’s the friendly doorman on duty. He’s seen me visit enough times to just wave me in, so I don’t have to have any big announcements of my arrival.

I walk out of the lift at the fifth floor, and to my surprise, there’s no one on reception. How weird. I wait for a few seconds — then wander past the desk and down the main corridor. Gradually my steps slow down — and a puzzled frown comes to my face. There’s something wrong here. Something different.

It’s too quiet. The whole place is practically dead. When I look across the open-plan space, most of the chairs are empty. There aren’t any phones ringing; there aren’t any people striding about; there aren’t brainstorming sessions going on.

What’s going on? What’s happened to the buzzy Brandon C atmosphere? What’s happened to Luke’s company?

As I pass the coffee machine, two guys I half-recognize are standing, talking by it. One’s got a disgruntled expression and the other is agreeing — but I can’t quite hear what they’re talking about. As I come near, they stop abruptly. They shoot me curious looks, then glance at each other and walk off, before starting to talk again, but in lowered voices.

I can’t quite believe this is Brandon Communications. There’s a completely different feel about the place. This is like some deadbeat company where no one cares about what they’re doing. I walk to Mel’s desk — and, along with everyone else, she’s already left for the night. Mel, who normally stays till at least seven, then takes a glass of wine and gets changed in the loos for whatever great night out she’s got planned.

I root around behind her chair until I find the parcel addressed to me, and scribble a note to her on a Post-it. Then I stand up, hugging the heavy package to me, and tell myself that I’ve got what I came for. Now I should leave. There’s nothing to keep me.

But instead of walking away, I stand motionless. Staring at Luke’s closed office door.

Luke’s office. There are probably faxes from him in there. Messages about how things are going in New York. Maybe even messages about me. As I gaze at the smooth blank wood, I feel almost overwhelmed by an urge to go in and find out what I can.

But then — what exactly would I do? Look through his files? Listen to his voice mail? I mean, what if someone caught me?

I’m standing there, torn — knowing I’m not really going to go and rifle through his stuff, yet unable just to walk away — when suddenly I stiffen in shock. The handle of his office door is starting to move.

Oh shit. Shit. There’s someone in there! They’re coming out!

In a moment of pure panic, I find myself ducking down out of sight, behind Mel’s chair. As I curl up into a tiny ball I feel a thrill of terror, like a child playing hide-and-seek. I hear some voices murmuring — and then the door swings open and someone comes out. From my vantage point, all I can see is that it’s a female, and she’s wearing those new Chanel shoes which cost an absolute bomb. She’s followed by two pairs of male legs, and the three begin to walk down the corridor. I can’t resist peeping out from behind the chair — and of course. It’s Alicia Bitch Longlegs, with Ben Bridges and a man who looks familiar but whom I can’t quite place.

Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. She’s in charge while Luke is away. But does she have to take over Luke’s office? I mean, why can’t she just use a meeting room?

“Sorry we had to meet here,” I can just hear her saying. “Obviously, next time, it’ll be at 17 King Street.”

They continue talking until they reach the lifts, and I pray desperately that they’ll all get inside one and disappear. But as the lift doors ping open, only the familiar-looking man gets in — and a moment later, Alicia and Ben are heading back toward Luke’s office.

“I’ll just get those files,” says Alicia, and goes back into Luke’s office, leaving the door open. Meanwhile, Ben is lolling against the water dispenser, pressing the buttons on his watch and staring intently at the tiny screen.

This is horrendous! I’m trapped until they leave. My knees are starting to hurt and I’ve got an awful feeling that if I move an inch, one of them will crack. What if Ben and Alicia stay here all night? What if they come over to Mel’s desk? What if they decide to make love on Mel’s desk?

“OK,” says Alicia, suddenly appearing at the door. “I think that’s it. Good meeting, I thought.”

“I suppose.” Ben looks up from his watch. “Do you think Frank’s right? Do you think he might sue?”

Frank! Of course. That other man was Frank Harper. The publicity guy from Bank of London. I used to see him at press conferences.

“He won’t sue,” says Alicia calmly. “He’s got too much face to lose.”

“He’s lost a fair amount already,” says Ben, raising his eyebrows. “He’ll be the invisible man before too long.”

“True,” says Alicia, and smirks back at him. She looks at the pile of folders in her arms. “Have I got everything? I think so. Right, I’m off. Ed will be waiting for me. See you tomorrow.”

They both disappear down the corridor and this time, thank God, they get into a lift. When I’m quite sure they’ve gone, I sit back on my heels with a puzzled frown. What’s going on? Why were they talking about suing? Suing who? And how come Bank of London was here?

Is Bank of London going to sue Luke? It sounds like everything’s a complete mess! I thought Alicia was supposed to have everything under control.

For a while I just sit still, trying to work it all out. But I’m not really getting anywhere — and suddenly it occurs to me that I ought to get out while the going’s good. I get up, wincing at the cramp in my foot, and shake out my legs as the circulation returns to them. Then I pick up my parcel, shake back my head, and as nonchalantly as possible, walk down the corridor toward the lifts. Just as I’m pressing the “Summon” button, my mobile phone rings inside my bag, and I give a startled jump. Shit, my phone! Thank God that didn’t happen while I was hiding behind Mel’s desk!

“Hello?” I say, as I get into the lift.

“Bex! It’s Suze.”

“Suze!” I say, and give a shaky giggle. “You have no idea how you nearly just got me in trouble! If you’d rung like, five minutes ago, you would have completely…”

“Bex, listen,” says Suze urgently. “You’ve just had a call.”

“Oh right?” I press the ground-floor button. “From who?”

“From Zelda at Morning Coffee! She wants to talk to you! She said, do you want to meet for a quick lunch tomorrow?”

That night, I barely get an hour’s sleep. Suze and I stay up till late, deciding on what I should wear — and when I’ve gone to bed, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling my mind flip around like a fish. Will they offer my old job back after all? Will they offer me a different job? Maybe they’ll upgrade me! Maybe they’ll give me my own show!

But by the early hours of the morning, all my wild fantasies have faded away, leaving the simple truth. The truth is, all I really want is my old job back. I want to be able to tell Mum to start watching again, and to start paying off my overdraft… and to start my life all over again. Another chance. That’s all I want.

“You see?” says Suze the next morning as I’m getting ready. “You see? I knew they’d want you back. That Clare Edwards is crap! Completely and utterly—”

“Suze,” I interrupt. “How do I look?”

“Very good,” says Suze, looking me up and down approvingly. I’m wearing my black Banana Republic trousers and a pale fitted jacket over a white shirt, and a dark green scarf round my neck.

I would have worn my Denny and George scarf — in fact, I even picked it up from the dressing table. But then, almost immediately, I put it down again. I don’t quite know why.

“Very kick-ass,” adds Suze. “Where are you having lunch?”

“Lorenzo’s.”

“San Lorenzo?” Her eyes widen impressively.

“No, I don’t think so. Just… Lorenzo’s. I’ve never been there before.”

“Well, you make sure you order champagne,” says Suze. “And tell them you’re fighting off loads of other offers, so if they want you to come back, they’re going to have to pay big bucks. That’s the deal, take it or leave it.”

“Right,” I say, unscrewing my mascara.

“If their margins suffer, then so be it,” says Suze emphatically. “For a quality product you have to pay quality prices. You want to close the deal at your price, on your terms.”

“Suze…” I stop, mascara wand on my lashes. “Where are you getting all this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“All this… margins and close the deal stuff.”

“Oh, that! From the Hadleys conference. We had a seminar from one of the top salespeople in the U.S.! It was great! You know, a product is only as good as the person selling it.”

“If you say so.” I pick up my bag and check that I’ve got everything — then look up and take a deep breath. “Right, I’m going.”

“Good luck!” says Suze. “Except you know, there is no luck in business. There’s only drive, determination, and more drive.”

“OK,” I say dubiously. “I’ll try to remember that.”

The address I’ve been given for Lorenzo’s is a street in Soho — and as I turn into it, I can’t see anything that looks obviously like a restaurant. It’s mostly just office blocks, with a few little newsagenty-type shops, and a coffee shop, and a…

Hang on. I stop still and stare at the sign above the coffee shop. “Lorenzo’s coffee shop and sandwich bar.”

But surely… this can’t be where we’re meeting?

“Becky!” My head jerks up, and I see Zelda walking along the street toward me, in jeans and a Puffa. “You found it all right!”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to look discomfited. “Yes, I found it.”

“You don’t mind just a quick sandwich, do you?” she says, sweeping me inside. “It’s just that this place is quite convenient for me.”

“No! I mean… a sandwich would be great!”

“Good! I recommend the Italian chicken!” She eyes me up and down. “You look very smart. Off somewhere nice?”

I stare at her, feeling a pang of mortification. I can’t admit I dressed up specially to see her.

“Erm… yes.” I clear my throat. “A… a meeting I’ve got later.”

“Oh well, I won’t keep you long. Just a little proposition we wanted to put to you.” She shoots me a quick smile. “We thought it would be nicer to do it face to face.”

This isn’t exactly what I imagined for our power lunch. But as I watch the sandwich guy smoothing Italian chicken onto our bread, adding salad, and slicing each sandwich into four quarters, I start to feel more positive. OK, maybe this isn’t a grand place with tablecloths and champagne. Maybe they aren’t pushing the boat out. But then, that’s probably good! It shows they still think of me as part of the team, doesn’t it? Someone to have a relaxed sandwich with, and thrash out ideas for the forthcoming season.

Maybe they want to take me on board as a features consultant. Or train me to become a producer!

“We all felt for you dreadfully, Becky,” says Zelda as we make our way to a tiny wooden table, balancing our trays of sandwiches and drinks. “How are things going? Have you got a job lined up in New York?”

“Um… not exactly,” I say, and take a sip of my mineral water. “That’s all kind of… on hold.” I see her eyes watching me appraisingly, and quickly add, “But I’ve been considering lots of offers. You know — various projects, and… and ideas in development…”

“Oh good! I’m so glad. We all felt very bad that you had to go. And I want you to know, it wasn’t my decision.” She puts her hand on mine briefly, then removes it to take a bite of her sandwich. “So now — to business.” She takes a sip of tea, and I feel my stomach flutter with nerves. “You remember our producer, Barry?”

“Of course I do!” I say, slightly taken aback. Are they expecting me to have forgotten the name of the producer already?

“Well, he’s come up with quite an interesting idea.” Zelda beams at me, and I beam back. “He thinks the Morning Coffee viewers would be really interested to hear about your… little problem.”

“Right,” I say, feeling my smile freeze on my face. “Well, it’s… it’s not really a—”

“And he thought perhaps you would be ideal to take part in a discussion and/or phone-in on the subject.” She takes a sip of tea. “What do you think?”

I stare at her in confusion.

“Are you talking about going back to my regular slot?”

“Oh no! I mean, we could hardly have you giving financial advice, could we?” She gives a little laugh. “No, this would be more of a one-off, topical piece. ‘How shopping wrecked my life.’ That kind of thing.” She takes a bite of sandwich. “And ideally, it would be quite a… how can I put this? An emotional piece. Maybe you could bare your soul a little. Talk about your parents, how this has ruined their lives too… problems in your childhood… relationship trouble… these are just ideas, obviously!” She looks up. “And you know, if you were able to cry…”

“To… to cry?” I echo disbelievingly.

“It’s not compulsory. By any means.” Zelda leans earnestly forward. “We want this to be a good experience for you too, Becky. We want to help. So we’d have Clare Edwards in the studio too, to offer you advice…”

“Clare Edwards!”

“Yes! You used to work with her, didn’t you? That was why we thought of approaching her. And you know, she’s quite a hit! She really tells the callers off! So we’ve decided to rename her Scary Clare and give her a whip to crack!”

She beams at me but I can’t smile back. My whole face is prickling with shock and humiliation. I’ve never felt so belittled in my life.

“So what do you think?” she says, slurping at her smoothie.

I put down my sandwich, unable to take another bite.

“I’m afraid my answer’s no.”

“Oh! There’d be a fee, of course!” she says. “I should have mentioned that at the beginning.”

“Even so. I’m not interested.”

“Don’t answer yet. Think about it!” Zelda flashes me a cheery smile, then glances at her watch. “I must dash, I’m afraid. But it’s lovely to see you, Becky. And I’m so glad things are going well for you.”

After she’s gone I sit still for a while, sipping at my mineral water. I’m outwardly calm — but inside I’m burning with mortified rage. They want me to go on and cry. That’s all they want. One article in one crappy tabloid — and suddenly I’m not Becky Bloomwood, financial expert. I’m Becky Bloomwood, failure and flake. I’m Becky Bloomwood, watch her cry and pass the hankies.

Well, they can just bloody well stuff their bloody hankies. They can just take their stupid, bloody… stupid… stupid… bloody…

“Are you all right?” says the man at the next table — and to my horror I realize I’m muttering aloud.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks.” I put down my glass and walk out of Lorenzo’s, my head high and my chin stiff.

I walk down the road and turn a corner without even noticing where I’m going. I don’t know the area and I don’t have anyplace I need to get to — so I just walk, almost hypnotizing myself with the rhythm of my steps, thinking eventually I’ll hit a tube station.

As I walk, my eyes start to smart and I tell myself it’s the cold air. It’s the wind. I shove my hands in my pockets and tighten my chin and start to walk faster, trying to keep my mind empty. But there’s a blank dread inside me; a hollow panic that is getting worse and worse. I haven’t got my job back. I haven’t even got the prospect of a job. What am I going to say to Suze? What am I going to say to Mum?

What am I going to do with my life?

“Oy! Watch out!” yells someone behind me — and to my horror I realize I’ve stepped off the pavement in front of a cyclist.

“Sorry,” I say in a husky voice as the cyclist swerves off, shooting me the finger. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to pull myself together. I mean, where am I, for a start? I start to walk more slowly along the pavement, peering up at the glass doors of offices, looking for the name of the road I’m on. And I’m just about to ask a traffic warden — when suddenly I see a sign. King Street.

For a moment I stare at it blankly, wondering why it’s chiming a bell inside my head. Then, with a jolt, I remember: 17 King Street. Alicia.

I peer at the number embossed on the glass doors nearest me — and it’s 23. Which means… I must have just walked past number 17.

Now I’m completely consumed by curiosity. What on earth goes on at 17 King Street? Is it some secret cult, or something? God, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a witch in her spare time.

My whole body is prickling with intrigue as I retrace my steps until I’m standing outside a modest set of double doors marked 17. It’s obviously a building with lots of different little companies inside, but as I run my eye down the list, none sounds familiar.

“Hi!” says a bloke in a denim jacket, holding a cup of coffee. He comes up to the doors, presses a code into the keypad, and pushes the door open. “You look lost. Who are you after?”

“Erm… I’m not sure actually,” I say hesitantly. “I thought I knew somebody who worked here, but I can’t remember the name of the company.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s… it’s Alicia,” I say — then immediately wish I hadn’t. What if this guy knows Alicia? What if she’s in there somewhere and he goes and fetches her?

But he’s frowning puzzledly. “I don’t know an Alicia… Mind you, there’s a few new faces around at the moment… What sort of business is she in?”

“PR,” I say after a pause.

“PR? We’re mostly graphic design, here…” Suddenly his face clears. “Hey, but maybe she’s with the new company. B and B? BBB? Something like that. They haven’t started trading yet, so we haven’t met them.” He takes a sip of cappuccino and I stare at him. My mind is starting to twitch.

“A new PR company? Based here?”

“As far as I know, yes. They’ve taken a big space on the second floor.”

Thoughts are sparking round my head like fireworks.

B and B. Bridges and Billington. Billington and Bridges.

“Do you…” I try to keep calm. “Do you know what sort of PR?”

“Ah! Now, this I do know. It’s financial. Apparently one of their biggest clients is Bank of London. Or will be. Which must be a nice little earner… But as I say, we haven’t met them yet, so…” He looks at me and his face changes expression. “Hey. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I manage. “I think. I just have to… I have to make a phone call.”

I dial the number of the Four Seasons three times — and each time hang up before I can bring myself to ask for Luke Brandon. At last I take a deep breath, dial the number again, and ask to speak to Michael Ellis.

“Michael, it’s Becky Bloomwood here,” I say when I’m put through.

“Becky!” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from me. “How are you doing?”

I close my eyes, trying to keep calm. But just the sound of his voice has taken me back to the Four Seasons with a whoosh. Back to that dim, expensive lobby. Back to that New York dreamworld.

“I…” I take a deep breath. “I’m fine. You know… back to normal life… busy, busy!”

I’m not going to admit I’ve lost my job. I’m not going to have everyone feeling sorry for me.

“I’m just on my way to the studio,” I say, crossing my fingers. “But I wanted a quick word. I think I know why there’s a rumor going around that Luke’s going to lose Bank of London.”

I tell him exactly what I overheard in the office, how I went to King Street, and what I’ve discovered.

“I see,” says Michael at intervals, sounding grim. “I see. You know, there’s a clause in their contracts forbidding employees to do this? If they poach a client, Luke could sue them.”

“They talked about that. They seem to think he won’t sue because he’d lose too much face.”

There’s silence — and I can almost hear Michael thinking down the line.

“They have a point,” he says at last. “Becky, I have to talk to Luke. You did a great job finding out what you did…”

“That’s not the only thing.” I take a deep breath. “Michael, someone’s got to talk to Luke. I went into the Brandon Communications office, and it was completely dead. No one’s making any effort, everyone’s going home early… it’s a whole different atmosphere. It’s not good.” I bite my lip. “He needs to come home.”

“Why don’t you tell him this yourself?” says Michael gently. “I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”

He sounds so kind and concerned, I feel a sudden prickle in my nose.

“I can’t. If I ring him up, he’ll just think… he’ll think I’m trying to prove some point, or it’s just some more stupid gossip…” I break off, and swallow hard. “To be honest, Michael, I’d rather you just kept me out of it. Pretend someone else spoke to you. But someone’s got to tell him.”

“I’m seeing him in half an hour,” Michael says. “I’ll talk to him then. And, Becky… well done.”

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

c/o Four Seasons Hotel

57 East 57th Street

New York 10022

October 3, 2000

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

I was delighted to meet you at Nina Heywood’s luncheon the other day. It was a great pleasure to meet such a cultured and well-connected young lady as yourself.

I write because I am coming to England in two weeks’ time and I was very much hoping that you might be able to introduce me to Prince William and, if possible, the queen? I would be honored to take the three of you to dinner, whenever is convenient.

I look forward to hearing from you.

With kind regards,

Marion Jefferson (Mrs.)

P.S. If not the queen, then maybe Prince Philip?