Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (92 page)

I follow his gaze and see Danny’s brother Randall walking across the floor toward us.

For the millionth time I wonder how on earth Randall and Danny can have come from the same parents. While Danny is wiry and constantly on the move, Randall fills his double-breasted suit comfortably, and always wears the same disapproving frown.

“Hello, Daniel,” he says, and nods to me. “Becky.”

“Hi, Randall,” I say, and give what I hope is a natural smile. “How are you?”

“So here they are!” says Danny triumphantly, moving away from the rack and gesturing to the T-shirts. “My collection. In Barneys. Just like I said.”

“So I see,” says Randall, and carefully scrutinizes the rack of clothes. I feel sure he’s about to look up and say, “What on earth are you playing at?” But he says nothing—and with a slight dart of shock I realize that he’s been completely taken in.

There again, why is that such a surprise? Danny’s clothes don’t look so out of place, up there on the rack.

“Well, congratulations,” says Randall at last. “This is quite an achievement.” He pats Danny awkwardly on the shoulder, then turns to me. “Are they selling well?”

“Er . . . yes!” I say. “Very popular, I believe.”

“So, for how much do they retail?” He reaches for a T-shirt, and both Danny and I involuntarily draw breath. We watch, frozen, while he searches for the label, then looks up with a deep frown. “These have no price tags.”

“That’s because . . . they’re only just out,” I hear myself saying hurriedly. “But I think they’re priced at . . . erm . . . eighty-nine dollars.”

“I see.” Randall shakes his head. “Well, I never was one for high fashion—”

“Telling me,” Danny whispers in my ear.

“But if they’re selling, they must have something. Daniel, I take my hat off to you.” He reaches for another one, with rivets round the neck, and looks at it with a fastidious dismay. “Now, which one shall I buy?”

“Don’t buy one!” says Danny at once. “I’ll . . . make you one. As a gift.”

“I insist,” says Randall. “If I can’t support my own brother—”

“Randall, please.” Danny’s voice crackles with sincerity. “Allow me to make a gift to you. It’s the least I can do after all your kindness to me over the years. Really.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” says Randall at last, with a shrug. He looks at his watch. “I must go. Good to see you, Becky.”

“I’ll walk to the elevator with you,” says Danny, and darts me a jubilant look.

As they walk away, I feel a giggle of relief rising in me. I can’t quite believe we got away with it so easily.

“Hey!” comes a voice behind me suddenly. “Look at these! They’re new, aren’t they?” A manicured hand appears over my shoulder and plucks one of Danny’s T-shirts off the rail before I can stop it. My head whips round and I feel a plunge of dismay. It’s Lisa Farley, a sweet but completely dippy client of Erin’s. She’s about twenty-two, doesn’t seem to have a job, and always says whatever pops into her head, never mind whether someone might be offended. (She once asked Erin in all innocence, “Doesn’t it bother you, having such a weird-shaped mouth?”)

Now she’s holding the T-shirt up against her, looking down at it appraisingly.

Damn it. I should have whipped them down off the rack straight away.

“Hi, Becky!” she says cheerily. “Hey, this is cute! I haven’t seen these before.”

“Actually,” I say quickly, “these aren’t for sale yet. In fact, I need to . . . um . . . take them back to the stock room.” I try to grab for the T-shirt, but she moves away.

“I’ll just take a look in the mirror. Hey, Tracy! What do you think?”

Another girl, wearing the new Dior print jacket, is coming toward us.

“Of what?”

“These new T-shirts. They’re cool, aren’t they?” She reaches for another one and hands it to Tracy.

“If you could just give them back to me—” I say helplessly.

“This one’s nice!”

Now they’re both searching through the hangers with brisk fingers, and the poor T-shirts just can’t take the strain. Hems are unraveling, bits of glitter and strings of diamante are coming loose, and sequins are shedding all over the floor.

“Oops, this seam just came apart.” Lisa looks up in dismay. “Becky, it just fell apart. I didn’t pull it.”

“That’s OK,” I say weakly.

“Is everything supposed to fall off like this? Hey, Christina!” Lisa suddenly calls out. “This new line is so fun!”

Christina?

I wheel round and feel a lurch of horror. Christina is standing at the entrance to the personal shopping department, in conversation with the head of personnel.

“What new line?” she says, looking up. “Oh, hi, Becky.”

Shit. I have to stop this right now.

“Lisa—” I say desperately. “Come and see the new Marc Jacobs coats we’ve got in!”

Lisa ignores me.

“This new . . . what’s it called . . .” She squints at the label. “Danny Kovitz! I can’t believe Erin didn’t tell me these were coming in! Naughty naughty!” She wags a finger in mock reproach.

I watch in dismay as Christina looks up, alert. There’s nothing to galvanize her like someone suggesting her department is less than perfect.

“Excuse me a minute,” she says to the head of personnel, and comes across the floor toward us, her dark hair gleaming under the lights.

“What didn’t Erin tell you about?” she says pleasantly.

“This new designer!” says Lisa. “I never even heard of him before.”

“Ow!” says Tracy suddenly, and draws her hand away from the T-shirt. “That was a pin!”

“A pin?” echoes Christina. “Give me that!”

She takes the ragged T-shirt and stares at it bewilderedly. Then she catches sight of Danny’s laminated sign.

Oh, I’m so
stupid.
Why didn’t I take that down, at least?

As she reads it, her expression changes. She looks up and meets my eye, and I feel my whole body prickle with fear. I’ve never been in trouble with Christina before. But I’ve heard her telling people off over the phone, and I know she can be pretty fierce.

“Do you know anything about this, Becky?” she asks pleasantly.

“I . . .” I clear my throat. “The thing is . . .”

“I see. Lisa, I’m afraid there’s been a little confusion.” She gives Lisa a professional smile. “These items are not for sale. Becky—I think I’d better see you in my office.”

“Christina, I’m . . . sorry,” I say, feeling my face flush beetroot. “I really am . . .”

“What happened?” says Tracy. “Why aren’t they for sale?”

“Is Becky in trouble?” says Lisa in dismay. “Will she get fired? Don’t fire Becky! We like her better than Erin . . . Oh.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Erin. I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s all right,” says Erin, giving a rather pinched smile.

“Christina, all I can do is apologize,” I say humbly. “I never meant to cause any trouble. I never meant to mislead the customers . . .”

“In my office,” says Christina, lifting a hand to stop me. “If you have anything to say, Becky, then you can say it—”

“Stop!” comes a melodramatic voice behind us, and we all whip round, to see Danny heading toward us, his eyes even wilder than usual. “Just stop right there! Don’t blame Becky for this!” he says, placing himself in front of me. “She had nothing to do with it. If you’re going to fire anyone—fire me!”

“Danny, she can’t fire you,” I mutter. “You’re not employed by Barneys.”

“And you would be?” inquires Christina.

“Danny Kovitz.”

“Danny Kovitz. Ah.” Light dawns on Christina’s face. “So it was you who . . . assembled these garments. And planted them on our racks.”

“What? He’s not a real designer?” says Tracy in horror. “I knew it!
I
wasn’t fooled.” She thrusts the hanger she’s holding back onto the rack as though she’s been contaminated.

“Isn’t that breaking the law?” says Lisa, wide-eyed.

“It may well be,” says Danny defensively. “But shall I tell you why I’m reduced to criminal measures? Do you know the impossibility of getting a break in this so-called business of fashion?” He glances around to make sure his audience is listening. “I put every ounce of my life-force into my work. I weep, I cry out in pain, I squeeze myself dry of creative blood. But the fashion establishment isn’t interested in new talent! They aren’t interested in nurturing the newcomer who dares to be a little different!” His voice rises impassionedly. “If I have to take desperate measures, can you blame me? If you cut me, do I not bleed?”

“Wow,” breathes Lisa. “I had no idea it was so tough out there.”

“You did cut me,” puts in Tracy, who looks far less impressed by Danny’s speech. “With your stupid pin.”

“Christina, you have to give him a chance!” exclaims Lisa. “Look! He’s so dedicated!”

“I just want to bring my ideas to people who will love them,” begins Danny again. “My only desire is that someone, someday, will wear one of my garments and feel themselves transformed. But as I crawl toward them on my hands and knees, the doors keep being slammed in my face—”

“Enough already!” says Christina, half exasperated, half amused. “You want your big break? Let me have a look at these clothes.”

There’s a sudden intrigued quiet. I glance quickly at Danny. Perhaps this is going to be it! Christina will spot his genius and Barneys will buy his entire collection and he’ll be made! Then Gwyneth Paltrow will wear one of his T-shirts on Leno, and there’ll be a rush for them, and suddenly he’ll be famous and have his own boutique!

Christina reaches for a T-shirt with spattered dye and rhinestones on the front, and as she runs her eye up and down it, I hold my breath. Lisa and Tracy raise their eyebrows at each other, and although Danny is motionless, I can see his face tightening with hope. There’s dead silence as she puts it down—and as she reaches for a second T-shirt we all give an intake of breath, as though the Russian judge’s hand has hovered over the perfect six scorecard. With a critical frown, she stretches it out to look at it properly . . . and as she does so, one of the sleeves comes off in her hand, leaving a ragged seam behind.

Everyone stares at it speechlessly.

“That’s the look,” says Danny, a little too late. “It’s a . . . a deconstructive approach to design . . .”

Christina is shaking her head and putting the T-shirt back. “Young man. You certainly have flair. You may even have talent. Unfortunately these are not enough. Until you can finish off your work properly, you’re not going to get very far.”

“My designs are usually immaculately finished!” says Danny at once. “Perhaps this particular collection was a little hurried . . .”

“I suggest you go back to the beginning, make a few pieces, very carefully . . .”

“Are you saying I’m careless?”

“I’m saying you need to learn how to follow a project through to the end.” Christina smiles kindly at him. “Then we’ll see.”

“I can follow a project through!” says Danny indignantly. “It’s one of my strengths! It’s one of my— Would I be making Becky’s wedding dress otherwise?” He grabs me, as though we’re about to sing a duet. “The most important outfit of her whole life? She believes in me, even if nobody else does. When Becky Bloomwood walks down the aisle at the Plaza Hotel in a Danny Kovitz creation, you won’t be calling me careless then. And when the phones start ringing off their hooks—”

“What?” I say stupidly. “Danny—”

“You’re making Becky’s wedding dress?” Christina turns to me. “I thought you were wearing Richard Tyler.”

“Richard Tyler?” echoes Danny blankly.

“I thought you were wearing Vera Wang,” says Erin, who wandered over to the little scene two minutes ago and has been staring agog ever since.

“I heard you were wearing your mother’s dress,” chips in Lisa.

“
I’m
making your dress!” says Danny, his eyes wide with shock. “Aren’t I? You promised me, Becky! We had an agreement!”

“The Vera Wang sounds perfect,” says Erin. “You have to have that.”

“I’d go for Richard Tyler,” says Tracy.

“What about the dress your mother was married in, though?” says Lisa. “Wouldn’t that be so romantic?”

“The Vera Wang would be divine,” says Erin determinedly.

“But how can you pass up your own mother’s wedding dress?” demands Lisa. “How can you set aside a whole family tradition like that? Becky, don’t you agree?”

“The point is to look good!” says Erin.

“The point is to be romantic!” retorts Lisa.

“But what about my dress?” comes Danny’s plaintive voice. “What about loyalty to your best friend? What about that, Becky?”

Their voices seem to be drilling into my head, and they’re all staring at me avidly, waiting for an answer . . . and with no warning I feel myself snap.

“I don’t know, OK?” I cry desperately. “I just . . . don’t know what I’m going to do!”

Suddenly I feel almost tearful—which is completely ridiculous. I mean, it’s not like I won’t
have
a dress.

“Becky, I think we need to have a little chat,” says Christina, giving me a shrewd look. “Erin, clear all this up, please, and apologize to Carla, would you? Becky, come with me.”

We go into Christina’s smart beige suede office and she closes the door. She turns round—and for an awful moment I think she’s going to yell at me. But instead she gestures for me to sit down and gives me a long, penetrating look through her tortoiseshell glasses.

“How are you, Becky?”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re fine. I see.” Christina gives a skeptical nod. “What’s going on in your life at the moment?”

“Nothing much,” I say brightly. “You know! Same old same old . . .”

“Wedding plans going all right?”

“Yes!” I say at once. “Yes! Absolutely no problems there.”

“I see.” Christina is silent for a moment, tapping her teeth with a pen. “You visited a friend in the hospital recently. Who was that?”

“Oh, yes. That was . . . a friend of Luke’s, actually. Michael. He had a heart attack.”

“That must have been a shock for you.”

For a moment I’m silent.

“Well . . . yes, I suppose it was,” I say at last, running a finger along the arm of my chair. “Especially for Luke. The two of them have always been really close, but they’d had a falling out, and Luke was already feeling really guilty. Then we got the call about Michael—I mean, if he’d died, Luke never would have been able to . . .” I break off and rub my face, feeling emotion rising. “And then of course, there’s all this tension between Luke and his mother at the moment, which doesn’t help. She completely used him. In fact, she more than used him, she abused him. He feels utterly betrayed by her. But he won’t talk to me about it.” My voice starts to tremble. “He won’t talk to me about anything at the moment. Not the wedding, not the honeymoon . . . Not even where we’re going to live! We’re being chucked out of our apartment, and we haven’t found anywhere else to go yet, and I don’t know when we’re even going to start looking . . .”