Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 107
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“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.
“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.
