Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 88
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“I… I didn’t…” I whisper.
“I have to go into a meeting in an hour’s time and convince a stuffy, conservative New York investment bank that I’m fully in control of every aspect of my business and personal life. They’ll all have seen this. I’ll be a joke!”
“But of course you’re in control!” I say in alarm. “Luke, surely they’ll realize… surely they won’t—”
“Listen,” says Luke, turning round. “Do you know what the perception of me is in this city? The general perception here — for some inexplicable reason — is that I’m losing my touch.”
“Losing your touch?” I echo in horror.
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Luke takes a deep, controlled breath. “What I’ve been doing over the last few days is working my fucking arse off to convince these people that their perception is wrong. That I’m on top of it. That I have the media taped. And now…” He hits the paper sharply and I wince.
“Maybe… maybe they won’t have seen it.”
“Becky, they see everything,” says Luke. “That’s their job. That’s—”
He breaks off as the phone rings. After a pause, he picks it up.
“Hi, Michael. Ah. You’ve seen it. Yes, I know. Unfortunate timing. All right. See you in a sec.” He puts down the phone and reaches for his briefcase, without looking at me.
I feel cold and shivery. What have I done? I’ve wrecked everything. Phrases from the article keep popping into my mind, making me feel sick. Feckless Becky… hypocritical Becky… And they’re right. They’re all right.
When I look up, Luke’s closing his briefcase with a snap.
“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” At the door he hesitates, and turns round, looking suddenly confused. “But I don’t understand. If you weren’t at the Guggenheim — where did you get the book you gave me?”
“At the museum shop,” I whisper. “On Broadway.”
“But the sparkle stuff on your face. You said it was—”
“I… I had a makeover. Luke, I’m so sorry… I…”
I tail away into a hideous silence. I can feel my heart thumping, the blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know what to say, how to redeem myself.
Luke stares at me blankly, then gives a brief nod, turns, and reaches for the door handle.
When the door has closed behind him, I sit quite still for a while, staring straight ahead. I can’t quite believe all this is really happening. Just a few hours ago we were toasting each other with Bellinis. I was wearing my Vera Wang dress and we were dancing to Cole Porter and I was giddy with happiness. And now…
The phone starts to ring, but I don’t move. Only on the eighth ring do I stir myself and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Is that Becky Bloomwood?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“Becky, it’s Fiona Taggart from the Daily Herald. I’m so glad I’ve tracked you down! Becky, we’d be really interested in running a two-part feature on you and your… little problem, shall we call it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter.
“Do you deny it, then?”
“No comment,” I say, and thrust the phone down with a trembling hand. Immediately it rings again, and I pick it up.
“No comment, all right?” I exclaim. “No comment! No—”
“Becky? Darling?”
“Mum!” At the sound of her voice I feel myself dissolving into tears. “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry,” I gulp. “It’s so awful. I’ve messed everything up. I just didn’t know… I didn’t realize…”
“Becky!” comes her voice down the line, familiar and reassuring. “Love! You don’t have to be sorry! It’s those scumbag reporters who should be sorry. Making up all those stories. Putting words in people’s mouths. Poor Suzie phoned us up, very upset. You know, she gave that girl three bourbon biscuits and a KitKat, and this is the thanks she gets. A load of outlandish lies! I mean, pretending to be from the council tax. They should be prosecuted!”
“Mum…” I close my eyes, almost unable to say it. “It’s not all lies. They… they didn’t make everything up.” There’s a short silence, and I can hear Mum breathing anxiously down the line. “I am kind of in a… a bit of debt.”
“Well,” says Mum after a pause — and I can hear her gearing herself up to be positive. “Well. So what? Even if you are, is it any of their business?” She pauses, and I hear a voice in the background. “Exactly! Dad says, ‘if the American economy can be in debt by billions and still survive, then so can you.’ ”
“I have to go into a meeting in an hour’s time and convince a stuffy, conservative New York investment bank that I’m fully in control of every aspect of my business and personal life. They’ll all have seen this. I’ll be a joke!”
“But of course you’re in control!” I say in alarm. “Luke, surely they’ll realize… surely they won’t—”
“Listen,” says Luke, turning round. “Do you know what the perception of me is in this city? The general perception here — for some inexplicable reason — is that I’m losing my touch.”
“Losing your touch?” I echo in horror.
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Luke takes a deep, controlled breath. “What I’ve been doing over the last few days is working my fucking arse off to convince these people that their perception is wrong. That I’m on top of it. That I have the media taped. And now…” He hits the paper sharply and I wince.
“Maybe… maybe they won’t have seen it.”
“Becky, they see everything,” says Luke. “That’s their job. That’s—”
He breaks off as the phone rings. After a pause, he picks it up.
“Hi, Michael. Ah. You’ve seen it. Yes, I know. Unfortunate timing. All right. See you in a sec.” He puts down the phone and reaches for his briefcase, without looking at me.
I feel cold and shivery. What have I done? I’ve wrecked everything. Phrases from the article keep popping into my mind, making me feel sick. Feckless Becky… hypocritical Becky… And they’re right. They’re all right.
When I look up, Luke’s closing his briefcase with a snap.
“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” At the door he hesitates, and turns round, looking suddenly confused. “But I don’t understand. If you weren’t at the Guggenheim — where did you get the book you gave me?”
“At the museum shop,” I whisper. “On Broadway.”
“But the sparkle stuff on your face. You said it was—”
“I… I had a makeover. Luke, I’m so sorry… I…”
I tail away into a hideous silence. I can feel my heart thumping, the blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know what to say, how to redeem myself.
Luke stares at me blankly, then gives a brief nod, turns, and reaches for the door handle.
When the door has closed behind him, I sit quite still for a while, staring straight ahead. I can’t quite believe all this is really happening. Just a few hours ago we were toasting each other with Bellinis. I was wearing my Vera Wang dress and we were dancing to Cole Porter and I was giddy with happiness. And now…
The phone starts to ring, but I don’t move. Only on the eighth ring do I stir myself and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Is that Becky Bloomwood?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“Becky, it’s Fiona Taggart from the Daily Herald. I’m so glad I’ve tracked you down! Becky, we’d be really interested in running a two-part feature on you and your… little problem, shall we call it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter.
“Do you deny it, then?”
“No comment,” I say, and thrust the phone down with a trembling hand. Immediately it rings again, and I pick it up.
“No comment, all right?” I exclaim. “No comment! No—”
“Becky? Darling?”
“Mum!” At the sound of her voice I feel myself dissolving into tears. “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry,” I gulp. “It’s so awful. I’ve messed everything up. I just didn’t know… I didn’t realize…”
“Becky!” comes her voice down the line, familiar and reassuring. “Love! You don’t have to be sorry! It’s those scumbag reporters who should be sorry. Making up all those stories. Putting words in people’s mouths. Poor Suzie phoned us up, very upset. You know, she gave that girl three bourbon biscuits and a KitKat, and this is the thanks she gets. A load of outlandish lies! I mean, pretending to be from the council tax. They should be prosecuted!”
“Mum…” I close my eyes, almost unable to say it. “It’s not all lies. They… they didn’t make everything up.” There’s a short silence, and I can hear Mum breathing anxiously down the line. “I am kind of in a… a bit of debt.”
“Well,” says Mum after a pause — and I can hear her gearing herself up to be positive. “Well. So what? Even if you are, is it any of their business?” She pauses, and I hear a voice in the background. “Exactly! Dad says, ‘if the American economy can be in debt by billions and still survive, then so can you.’ ”
