Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (73 page)

“Work for
you
?” I say, startled.

“Come and work for Brandon Communications.”

“Are you mad?”

He pushes his hair back off his face—and suddenly he looks young and vulnerable. Like someone who needs a break.

“I'm not mad. My staff's been decimated. I need someone like you at a senior level. You know about finance. You've been a journalist. You're good with people, you already know the company . . .”

“Luke, you'll easily find someone else like me,” I chip in. “You'll find someone better! Someone with PR experience, someone who's worked in—”

“OK, I'm lying,” Luke interrupts. “I'm lying.” He takes a deep breath. “I don't just need someone like you. I need you.”

He meets my eyes candidly—and with a jolt I realize he's not just talking about Brandon Communications.

“I need you, Becky. I rely on you. I didn't realize it until you weren't there anymore. Ever since you left, your words have been going round and round in my head. About my ambitions. About our relationship. About my mother, even.”

“Your mother?” I stare at him apprehensively. “I heard you tried to arrange a meeting with her . . .”

“It wasn't her fault.” He takes a swig of Pernod. “Something came up, so she couldn't make it. But you're right, I
should
spend more time with her. Really get to know her better, and forge a closer relationship, just like you have with your mother.” He looks up and frowns at my dumbfounded expression. “That is what you meant, isn't it?”

I try for a moment to imagine Luke and his mother chatting away in the kitchen like me and Mum—and fail completely.

“Erm . . . yes!” I say hastily. “Yes, that's exactly what I meant. Absolutely.”

“That's what I mean. You're the only person who'll tell me the stuff I need to hear, even when I don't want to hear it. I should have confided in you right from the start. I was . . . I don't know. Arrogant. Stupid.”

He sounds so bleak and hard on himself, I feel a twinge of dismay.

“Luke—”

“Becky, I know you've got your own career—and I completely respect that. I wouldn't even ask if I didn't think this could be a good step for you too. But . . . please.” He reaches across the table and puts a warm hand on mine. “Come back. Let's start again.”

I stare helplessly at him, feeling emotion swelling in me like a balloon.

“Luke, I can't work for you.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I have to go to the States. I have to take this chance.”

“I know it seems like a great opportunity. But what I'm offering could be a great opportunity, too.”

“It's not the same,” I say, clenching my hand tightly round my glass.

“It can be the same. Whatever Michael's offered you, I'll match it.” He leans forward. “I'll more than match it. I'll—”

“Luke,” I interrupt. “Luke, I didn't take Michael's job.”

Luke's face jerks in shock.

“You didn't? Then what—”

He looks at my suitcase and back up to my face—and I stare back in resolute silence.

“I understand,” he says at last. “It's none of my business.”

He looks so defeated, I feel a sudden stab of pain in my chest. I want to tell him—but I just can't. I can't risk talking about it, listening to my own arguments waver, wondering whether I've made the right choice. I can't risk changing my mind.

“Luke, I've got to go,” I say, my throat tight. “And . . . and you've got to get back to your meeting.”

“Yes,” says Luke after a long pause. “Yes. You're right. I'll go. I'll go now.” He stands up and reaches into his pocket. “Just . . . one last thing. You don't want to forget this.”

Very slowly, he pulls out a long, pale blue, silk and velvet scarf, scattered with iridescent beads.

My scarf. My Denny and George scarf.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“How did you—” I swallow. “The bidder on the phone was you? But . . . but you withdrew. The other bidder got the—” I tail off and stare at him in confusion.

“Both the bidders were me.”

He ties the scarf gently round my neck, looks at me for a few seconds, then kisses me on the forehead. Then he turns round and walks away, into the airport crowds.

Seventeen

Two Months Later

O
K
.
S
O IT
'
S TWO PRESENTATIONS,
one to Saatchis, one to Global Bank. One awards lunch with McKinseys, and dinner with Merrill Lynch.”

“That's it. It's a lot. I know.”

“It'll be fine,” I say reassuringly. “It'll be fine.”

I scribble something in my notebook and stare at it thinking hard. This is the moment of my new job I love the most. The initial challenge. Here's the puzzle—find the solution. For a few moments I sit without saying anything, doodling endless small five-pointed stars and letting my mind work it out, while Lalla watches me anxiously.

“OK,” I say at last. “I have it. Your Helmut Lang pantsuit for the meetings, your Jil Sander dress for the lunch—and we'll find you something new for the dinner.” I squint at her. “Maybe something in a deep green.”

“I can't wear green,” says Lalla.

“You can wear green,” I say firmly. “You look great ingreen.”

“Becky,” says Erin, putting her head round my door. “Sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Farlow is on the phone. She loves the jackets you sent over—but is there something lighter she can wear for this evening?”

“OK,” I say. “I'll call her back.” I look at Lalla. “So, let's find you an evening dress.”

“What am I going to wear with my pantsuit?”

“A shirt,” I say. “Or a cashmere tee. The gray one.”

“The gray one,” repeats Lalla carefully, as though I'm speaking in Arabic.

“You bought it three weeks ago? Armani? Remember?”

“Oh yes! Yes. I think.”

“Or else your blue shell top.”

“Right,” says Lalla, nodding earnestly. “Right.”

Lalla is high up in some top computer consultancy, with offices all over the world. She has two doctorates and an IQ of about a zillion—and claims she has severe clothes dyslexia. At first I thought she was joking.

“Write it down,” she says, thrusting a leather-bound organizer at me. “Write down all the combinations.”

“Well, OK . . . but, Lalla, I thought we were going to try to let you start putting a few outfits together yourself.”

“I know. I will. One day I will, I promise. Just . . . not this week. I can't deal with that extra pressure.”

“Fine,” I say, hiding a smile, and begin to write in her organizer, screwing up my face as I try to remember all the clothes she's got. I haven't got much time if I'm going to find her an evening dress for tonight, call Mrs. Farlow back, and locate that knitwear I promised for Janey van Hassalt.

Every day here is completely frenetic; everyone is always in a hurry. But somehow the busier I get, and the more challenges are thrown at me—the more I love it.

“By the way,” says Lalla. “My sister—the one you said should wear burnt orange . . .”

“Oh yes! She was nice.”

“She said she saw you on the television. In England! Talking about clothes!”

“Oh yes,” I say, feeling a faint flush come to my face. “I've been doing a little slot for a daytime lifestyle show. ‘Becky from Barneys.' It's a kind of New York, fashiony thing . . .”

“Well done!” says Lalla warmly. “A slot on television! That must be very exciting for you!”

I pause, a beaded jacket in my hand, thinking, a few months ago I was going to have my own show on American network television. And now I have a little slot on a daytime show with half the audience of
Morning Coffee.
But the point is, I'm on the path I want to be.

“Yes, it is,” I say, and smile at her. “It's very exciting.”

It doesn't take too long to sort Lalla out with an outfit for her dinner. As she leaves, clutching a list of possible shoes, Christina, the head of the department, comes in and smiles at me.

“How're you doing?”

“Fine,” I say. “Really good.”

Which is the truth. But even if it weren't—even if I were having the worst day in the world—I'd never say anything negative to Christina. I'm so grateful to her for remembering who I was. For giving me a chance.

I still can't quite believe how nice she was to me when I hesitantly phoned her up, out of the blue. I reminded her that we'd met, and asked if there was any chance I could come and work at Barneys—and she said she remembered exactly who I was, and how was the Vera Wang dress? So I ended up telling her the whole story, and how I had to sell the dress, and how my TV career was in tatters, and how I'd so love to come and work for her . . . and she was quiet for a bit—and then she said she thought I'd be quite an asset to Barneys. Quite an asset! It was her idea about the TV slot, too.

“Hidden any clothes today?” she says, with a slight twinkle, and I feel myself flush. I'm
never
going to live this down, am I?

It was during that first phone call that Christina also asked me if I had any retail experience. And like a complete moron, I told her all about the time I went to work in Ally Smith—and got the sack when I hid a pair of zebra-print jeans from a customer because I really wanted them myself. I came to the end of the story, and there was silence on the phone, and I thought I'd completely scuppered my chances. But then came this bellow of laughter, so loud I almost dropped the phone in fright. She told me last week that was the moment she decided to hire me.

She's also told the story to all our regular clients, which is a bit embarrassing.

“So.” Christina gives me a long, appraising look. “Are you ready for your ten o'clock?”

“Yes.” I flush slightly under her gaze. “Yes, I think so.”

“D'you want to brush your hair?”

“Oh.” My hand flies to my neck. “Is it untidy?”

“Not really.” There's a slight sparkle to her eye, which I don't understand. “But you want to look your best for your customer, don't you?”

She goes out of the room, and I quickly pull out a comb. God, I keep forgetting how tidy you have to be in Manhattan. Like, I have my nails done twice a week at a nail bar round the corner from where I live—but sometimes I think I should increase it to every other day. I mean, it's only nine dollars.

Which in real money, is . . . Well. It's nine dollars.

I'm kind of getting used to thinking in dollars. I'm kind of getting used to a lot of things. Jodie was a real star when I called her, and helped me find a studio apartment. It's tiny and pretty grotty and in a place called Hell's Kitchen (which I haven't told Mum. To her it's “Clinton,” which she thinks sounds very nice and respectable.). For the first few nights I couldn't sleep for the traffic noise. But the point is, I'm here. I'm here in New York, standing on my own two feet, doing something I can honestly say I adore.

Michael's job in Washington sounded wonderful. In many ways it would have been much more sensible to take it—and I know Mum and Dad wanted me to. But what Michael said at that lunch—about not falling into anything else, about going after what I truly wanted—made me think. About my career, about my life, about what I really wanted to do for a living.

And to give my mum her due, as soon as I explained what this job at Barneys would involve, she stared at me, and said, “But, love, why on earth didn't you think of this before?”

“Hi, Becky?” I give a small start, and look up to see Erin at my door. I've got to be quite good friends with Erin, ever since she invited me home to look at her collection of lipsticks and we ended up watching James Bond videos all night. “I have your ten o'clock here.”

“Who
is
my ten o'clock?” I say, frowning puzzledly as I reach for a Richard Tyler sheath. “I couldn't see anything in the book.”

“Well . . . uh . . .” Her face is all shiny and excited, for some reason. “Uh . . . here he is.”

“Thank you very much,” comes a deep male voice.

A deep male British voice.

Oh my God.

I freeze like a rabbit, still holding the Richard Tyler dress, as Luke walks into the room.

“Hello,” he says with a small smile. “Miss Bloomwood. I've heard you're the best shopper in town.”

I open my mouth and close it again. Thoughts are whizzing round my mind like fireworks. I'm trying to feel surprised, trying to feel as shocked as I know I should. Two months of absolutely nothing—and now here he is. I should be completely thrown.

But somehow—I don't feel thrown at all.

Subconsciously, I realize, I've been expecting him.

“What are you doing here?” I say, trying to sound as composed as I can.

“As I said, I've heard you're the best shopper in town.” He gives me a quizzical look. “I thought perhaps you could help me buy a suit. This one is looking rather tired.”

He gestures to his immaculate Jermyn Street suit, which I happen to know he's only had for three months, and I hide a smile.

“You want a suit.”

“I want a suit.”

“Right.”

Playing for time, I put the dress back on a hanger, turn away, and place it carefully on the rail. Luke's here.

He's here. I want to laugh, or dance, or cry, or something. But instead I reach for my notepad and, without rushing, turn round.

“What I normally do before anything else is ask my clients to tell me a little about themselves.” My voice is a little jumpy and I take a deep breath. “Perhaps you could . . . do the same?”

“Right. That sounds like a good idea.” Luke thinks for a moment. “I'm a British businessman. I'm based in London.” He meets my eyes. “But I've recently opened an office in New York. So I'm going to be spending quite a bit of time over here.”

“Really?” I feel a jolt of surprise, which I try to conceal. “You've opened in New York? That's . . . that's very interesting. Because I had the impression that certain British businessmen were finding it tough to do deals with New York investors. Just . . . something I heard.”

“They were.” Luke nods. “They were finding it tough. But then they downscaled their plans. They decided to open on a much smaller scale.”

“A smaller scale?” I stare at him. “And they didn't mind that?”

“Perhaps,” says Luke after a pause, “they realized that they'd been overambitious the first time round. Perhaps they realized that they'd become obsessed to the point where they'd let everything else suffer. Perhaps they realized they needed to swallow their pride and put away their grand plans—and slow down a little.”

“That . . . that makes a lot of sense,” I say.

“So they put together a new proposal, found a backer who agreed with them, and this time nothing stood in the way. They're already up and running.”

His face is gleaming with a suppressed delight, and I find myself beaming back.

“That's great!” I say. “I mean . . .” I clear my throat. “Right. I see.” I scribble some nonsense in my notepad. “So—how much time are you going to be spending in New York, exactly?” I add in a businesslike manner. “For my notes, you understand.”

“Absolutely,” says Luke, matching my tone. “Well, I'll be wanting to keep a significant presence in Britain. So I'll be here for two weeks a month. At least, that's the idea at the moment. It may be more, it may be less.” There's a long pause and his dark eyes meet mine. “It all depends.”

“On . . . on what?” I say, scarcely able to breathe.

“On . . . various things.”

There's a still silence between us.

“You seem very settled, Becky,” says Luke quietly. “Very . . . together.”

“I'm enjoying it, yes.”

“You look as though you're flourishing.” He looks around with a little smile. “This environment suits you. Which I suppose comes as no great surprise . . .”

“Do you think I took this job just because I like shopping?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Do you think this is just about . . . shoes and nice clothes? Because if that's really what you think, then I'm afraid you're sadly misguided.”

“That's not what I—”

“It's far more than that.
Far
more.” I spread my arms in an emphatic gesture. “It's about helping people. It's about being creative. It's about—”

A knock at the door interrupts me, and Erin pops her head in.

“Sorry to bother you, Becky. Just to let you know, I've put aside those Donna Karan mules you wanted. In the taupe
and
the black, right?”

“Erm . . . yes,” I say hurriedly. “Yes, that's fine.”

“Oh, and Accounts called, to say that takes you up to your discount limit for this month.”

“Right,” I say, avoiding Luke's amused gaze. “Right. Thanks. I'll . . . I'll deal with that later.” And I wait for Erin to leave, but she's gazing with frank curiosity at Luke.

“So, how are you doing?” she says to him brightly. “Have you had a chance to look around the store?”

“I don't need to look,” says Luke in a deadpan voice. “I know what I want.”

My stomach gives a little flip, and I stare straight down at my notebook, pretending to make more notes. Scribbling any old rubbish.

“Oh right!” says Erin. “And what's that?”

There's a long silence, and eventually I can't bear it anymore, I have to look up. As I see Luke's expression, my heart starts to thud.

“I've been reading your literature,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a leaflet entitled
The Personal Shopping Service: For busy people who need some help and can't afford to make mistakes.

He pauses, and my hand tightens around my pen.

“I've made mistakes,” he says, frowning slightly. “I want to right those mistakes and not make them again. I want to listen to someone who knows me.”

“Why come to Barneys?” I say in a trembling voice.

“There's only one person whose advice I trust.” His gaze meets mine and I feel a small tremor. “If she doesn't want to give it, I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“We have Frank Walsh over in menswear,” says Erin helpfully. “I'm sure he'd—”

“Shut up, Erin,” I say, without moving my head.

“What do you think, Becky?” he says, moving toward me. “Would you be interested?”

For a few moments I don't answer. I'm trying to gather all the thoughts I've had over the last couple of months. To organize my words into exactly what I want to say.

“I think . . .” I say at last, “I think the relationship between a shopper and a client is a very close one.”