Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (58 page)

I scoop up a few more, and then move on to the invitation rack. And they're even better! Instead of just saying “Party” they say things like “We're Meeting at the Club for Brunch!” and “Come Join Us for an Informal Pizza!”

You know, I think I should buy some of those. It would be shortsighted not to. Suze and I might easily hold a pizza party, mightn't we? And we'll never find invitations like this in Britain. And they're so sweet, with glittery little pizza slices all the way down the sides! I carefully put five boxes of invitations in my basket, along with all my lovely cards, and a few sheets of candy-striped wrapping paper, which I just can't resist, then head to the checkout. As the assistant scans everything through, I look around the shop again, wondering if I've missed anything—and it's only when she announces the total that I look up in slight shock. That much? Just for a few cards?

For a moment I wonder whether I really do need them all. Like the card saying “Happy Hanukkah, Boss!”

But then—they're bound to come in useful one day, aren't they? And if I'm going to live in New York, I'm going to have to get used to sending expensive cards all the time, so really, this is a form of acclimatization.

As I head toward the door, I'm dimly aware of a ringing, burbling sort of sound—and all of a sudden I realize it's my own mobile phone.

“Hi!” I say, clutching it to my ear. “Who's this?”

“Hi. It's me,” says Luke. “I heard your lunch went well.”

“Really?” I say, feeling a jolt of surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

“I've just been speaking to some people at HLBC. Apparently you were quite a hit. Very entertaining, they said.”

“Wow! Really? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. They were saying how charming you were, and how cultured . . . I even hear they put you in a taxi to the Guggenheim afterward.”

“That's right,” I say, reaching to look at a paper knife. “They did.”

“Yes, I was quite intrigued to hear all about your burning childhood dream,” says Luke. “Kent was very impressed.”

“Really?” I say vaguely. “Well, that's good.”

“Absolutely.” Luke pauses. “Slightly strange that you didn't mention the Guggenheim this morning, though, isn't it? Or indeed . . . ever. Bearing in mind you've been longing to go there since you were a child of six.”

Suddenly I hear the amusement in his voice, and snap to attention. He's bloody well rung up to tease me, hasn't he?

“Have I never mentioned the Guggenheim?” I say innocently, and put the paper knife back. “How very odd.”

“Isn't it?” says Luke. “Most peculiar. So, are you there now?”

Bugger.

For a moment, I'm silenced. I simply can't admit to Luke that I've gone shopping again. Not after all that teasing he gave me about my so-called guided tour. I mean OK, I know ten minutes out of a three-hour city tour isn't that much—but I got as far as Saks, didn't I?

“Yes,” I say defiantly. “Yes, I am, actually.”

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, I can easily go there after I've finished here.

“Great!” says Luke. “What particular exhibit are you looking at?”

Oh, shut up.

“What's that?” I say, suddenly raising my voice. “Sorry, I didn't realize! Luke, I have to turn my mobile off. The . . . um . . . curator is complaining. But I'll see you later.”

“Six at the Royalton Bar,” he says. “You can meet my new associate, Michael. And I'll look forward to hearing all about your afternoon.”

Now I feel a bit guilty. I shouldn't have told Luke I was at the Guggenheim. I should have told the truth.

But it doesn't matter . . . because what I'll do is I'll go there right now. Right this minute! After all, I can always come back to SoHo another day, can't I?

I walk slowly along the crowded street, telling myself that what I'll do is hail a cab and go straight up there. Without delay. Straight to the Guggenheim and immerse myself in some wonderful culture. Excellent. I can't wait, actually.

I arrive at a street corner and come to a standstill. A lit-up taxi crawls past—but for some strange reason my arm doesn't rise. Across the street is a stall selling fake designer sunglasses, and I feel a sudden pang of longing to go and rifle through them. And look there, that shop's doing a discount on Calvin Klein jeans. And I do actually
need
some new jeans . . . And I haven't even been into Dean and Deluca . . .

Oh, why couldn't the Guggenheim be in SoHo?

Hang on a minute.

People are pushing past me but I don't move. My eye is riveted by something fixed to the facade above an entrance. I don't quite believe what I'm seeing.

The word
GUGGENHEIM
stares back at me, as large as life. It's like God heard my prayers.

But what's going on? Has the Guggenheim suddenly
moved
? Are there two Guggenheims?

As I hurry toward the doors, I realize this place looks quite small for a museum—so maybe it's not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it's some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Gallery and Tate Modern, why can't New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo? That sounds so cool!

I cautiously push the door open—and sure enough, it's all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.

You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don't feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.

As I'm gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually, “How much is it?”

And I'm about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, “That's what I always want to know, too!”—when to my astonishment the man reaches for it and turns it over. And there's a price label fixed onto the back!

A price label in a museum! I don't believe it! This place is perfect!
Finally,
some forward-thinking person has agreed with me—that people don't want to just look at art, they want to know how much it is. I'm going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.

And you know, now that I look around properly,
all
the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that . . . that box of pencils.

How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it's installation art. I walk over to have a closer look—and there's something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life . . . I lean close, interested, and find myself reading the words “GuggenheimMuseum Store.”

What?

Is this a—

I lift my head and look around bewilderedly.

Am I in a
shop
?

Suddenly I start noticing things I hadn't seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room. And there's somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.

How could I have not recognized a
shop
? But . . . this makes less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own?

“Excuse me,” I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name badge. “Can I just check—this
is
a shop?”

“Yes, ma'am,” says the boy politely. “This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.”

“And where's the actual Guggenheim Museum? With all the Picassos and things?”

“To see the Picassos you have to go to the main museum, on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-ninth Street,” says the boy.

“Right.” I look at him confusedly. “So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff—and no one minds whether you've been to the museum or not? I mean, you don't have to show your ticket or anything?”

“No, ma'am.”

“So you . . . you can just shop?” My voice rises in delight. “It's perfect!” Suddenly I see the boy's shocked expression and quickly add, “I mean, obviously I
do
want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just . . . you know. Checking.”

“If you're interested in visiting the museum,” says the boy, “I can give you a location map. Did you want to pay a visit?”

“Erm . . .”

Now, let's not make any hasty decisions.

“Erm . . . I'm not sure,” I say carefully. “Could you just give me a minute?”

“Sure,” says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.

OK, here's the thing. I mean, obviously I could get in a cab, and whiz up to wherever it is, and spend all afternoon looking at the Picassos.

Or else . . . I could just buy a book
about
the Picassos. Because the thing is, do you actually need to see a piece of art in the flesh to appreciate it? Of course you don't. And in a way, flicking through a book would be
better
than trekking round lots of galleries—because I'm bound to cover more ground more quickly and actually learn far more.

Besides, what they have in this shop is art, isn't it? I mean, I've already taken in some pretty good culture. Exactly.

Several hours later, I arrive at the Royalton with a huge, exhilarated grin on my face. I haven't had such a successful afternoon shopping since . . . well, since yesterday.

I check all my carrier bags in at the cloakroom, then head for the small circular bar where Luke has told me to meet him and his new associate, Michael Ellis.

I've heard quite a lot about this Michael Ellis during the last few days. Apparently he owns a huge advertising agency in Washington and is best friends with the president. Or is it the vice-president? Something like that, anyway. Basically, he's a big shot, and crucial to Luke's new deal. So I'd better make sure I impress him.

God, this place is trendy, I think as I walk in. All leather and chrome and people in severe black outfits with haircuts to match. I walk into the dim circular bar, and there's Luke, sitting at a table. To my surprise, he's on his own.

“Hi!” I say, and kiss him. “So—where's your friend?”

“Making a call,” says Luke. He gestures to a waiter. “Another gimlet here, please.” He gives me a quizzical look as I sit down. “So, my darling. How was the Guggenheim?”

“It was good,” I say with a triumphant beam. Ha, ha-di-ha. I've been doing my homework in the cab. “I particularly enjoyed a fascinating series of acrylic forms based on simple Euclidean shapes.”

“Really?” says Luke, looking a bit surprised.

“Absolutely. The way they absorb and reflect pure light . . . Riveting. Oh and by the way, I bought you a present.” I plonk a book on his lap entitled
Abstract Art and Artists,
and take a sip of the drink that has been placed in front of me, trying not to look too smug.

“You really went to the Guggenheim!” says Luke, leafing through the book incredulously.

“Erm . . . yes,” I say. “Of course I did!”

OK, I know you shouldn't lie to your boyfriend. But it's kind of true, isn't it? I
did
go to the Guggenheim. In the broadest sense of the word.

“This is really interesting,” Luke's saying. “Did you see that famous sculpture by Brancusi?”

“Erm . . . well . . .” I squint over his shoulder, trying to see what he's talking about. “Well, I was more concentrating on the . . . um . . .”

“What's that on your cheek?” says Luke, suddenly staring at me. I put a hand up in surprise and feel a trace of silver glitter. I'd forgotten all about that.

“It was . . . a piece of installation art,” I hear myself saying. “Entitled
Constellations.
They had all this, um . . . glitter, and they smeared it on you . . .”

“Here comes Michael now,” interrupts Luke. He closes the book and I quickly put it back in its carrier bag. Thank God for that. I look up interestedly to see what this famous Michael looks like—and nearly choke on my drink.

I don't believe it. It's him. Michael Ellis is the balding guy from the gym. Last time he saw me, I was dying at his feet.

“Hi!” says Luke, standing up. “Becky, meet Michael Ellis, my new associate.”

“Hi again,” I say, trying to smile composedly. “How are you?”

Oh, this shouldn't be allowed. There should be a rule which says that people you've met in the gym should
never
meet you in real life.

“We've already had the pleasure of meeting,” says Michael Ellis, shaking my hand with a twinkle and sitting down opposite. “Becky and I worked out together at the hotel gym. Didn't catch you there this morning, though.”

“This morning?” says Luke, giving me a puzzled look as he sits down again. “I thought you said the gym was closed,Becky.”

Shit.

“Oh. Um, well . . .” I take a deep gulp of my drink and clear my throat. “When I said it was
closed,
what I really meant was . . . was . . .” I tail away feebly into silence.

And I so wanted to make a good impression.

“What am I thinking of?” exclaims Michael suddenly. “I must be going crazy! It wasn't this morning. The gym
was
closed this morning. Due to vital repair work, I believe.” He grins broadly and I feel myself blushing.

“So, anyway,” I say, hurriedly changing the subject. “You're . . . you're doing a deal with Luke. That's great! How's it all going?”

I only really ask to be polite, and steer attention away from my gym activities. I'm expecting them both to start explaining it to me at great length, and I can nod my head at intervals and enjoy my drink. But to my surprise, there's an awkward pause.

“Good question,” says Luke at last, and looks at Michael. “What did Clark say?”

“We had a long conversation,” says Michael. “Not entirely satisfactory.”

I look from face to face, feeling disconcerted.

“Is something going wrong?”

“That all depends,” says Michael.

He starts to tell Luke about his phone call with whoever Clark is, and I try to listen intelligently to their conversation. But the trouble is, I'm starting to feel quite giddy. How much have I drunk today? I don't even want to think about it, to be honest. I loll against the leather backrest, my eyes closed, listening to their voices chatting what seems far above my head.