Shopaholic Abroad (by Sophie Kinsella)

Extract 1

OK, don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’s simply a question of being organized and staying calm and deciding what exactly I need to take. And then fitting it all neatly into my suitcase. I mean, just how hard can that be?

I step back from my cluttered bed and close my eyes, half hoping that if I wish hard enough, my clothes might magically arrange themselves into a series of neat folded piles. Like in those magazine articles on packing, which tell you how to go on holiday with one cheap sarong and cleverly turn it into six different outfits. (Which I always think is a complete con, because, OK, the sarong costs ten quid, but then they add loads of clothes which cost hundreds, and we’re not supposed to notice.)

But when I open my eyes again, the clutter is all still there. In fact, there seems to be even more of it, as if while my eyes were shut, my clothes have been secretly jumping out of the drawers and running around on my bed. Everywhere I look, all around my room, there are huge great tangled piles of... well... stuff. Shoes, boots, T-shirts, magazines... a Body Shop gift basket that was on sale... a Linguaphone Italian course which I must start... a facial sauna thingy... And, sitting proudly on my dressing table, a fencing mask and sword which I bought yesterday. Only forty quid from a charity shop!

I pick up the sword and experimentally give a little lunge towards my reflection in the mirror. It was a real coincidence, because I’ve been meaning to take up fencing for ages, ever since I read this article about it in the Daily World. Did you know that fencers have better legs than any other sports people? Plus if you’re an expert you can become a stunt double in a film and earn loads of money! So what I’m planning to do is find some fencing lessons nearby, and get really good, which I should think I’ll do quite quickly.

And then – this is my secret little plan – when I’ve got my gold badge, or whatever it is, I’ll write to Catherine Zeta Jones. Because she must need a stunt double, mustn’t she? And why shouldn’t it be me? In fact she’d probably prefer someone British. Maybe she’ll phone back and say she always watches my television appearances on cable, and she’s always wanted to meet me! God, yes. Wouldn’t that be great? We’ll probably really hit it off, and turn out to have the same sense of humour and everything. And then I’ll fly out to her luxury home, and get to meet Michael Douglas and play with the baby. We’ll be all relaxed together like old friends, and some magazine will do a feature on celebrity best friends and have us in it, and maybe they’ll even ask me to be...

‘Hi Bex!’ With a jolt, the happy pictures of me laughing with Michael and Catherine vanish from my head, and my brain snaps into focus. Suze my flat-­mate is wandering into my room, wearing a pair of ancient paisley pyjamas. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks curiously.

‘Nothing!’ I say, hastily putting the fencing sword back. ‘Just... you know. Keep fit.’

‘Oh right,’ she says vaguely. ‘So – how’s the packing going?’ She wanders over to my mantelpiece, picks up a lipstick and begins to apply it. Suze always does this in my room – just wanders about picking things up and looking at them and putting them down again. She says she loves the way you never know what you might find, like in a junk shop. Which I’m fairly sure she means in a nice way.

‘It’s going really well,’ I say. ‘I’m just deciding which suitcase to take.’

‘Ooh,’ says Suze turning round, her mouth half bright pink. ‘What about that little cream one? Or your red holdhall?’

‘I thought maybe this one,’ I say, hauling my new acid green shell case out from under the bed. I bought it at the weekend, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

‘Wow!’ says Suze, her eyes widening. ‘Bex! That’s fab! Where did you get it?’

‘Fenwicks,’ I say, grinning broadly. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

‘It’s the coolest case I’ve ever seen!’ says Suze, running her fingers admiringly over it. ‘So... how many suitcases have you got now?’ She glances up at my wardrobe, on which are teetering a brown leather case, a lacquered trunk and three vanity cases.

‘Oh, you know,’ I say, shrugging a little defensively. ‘The normal amount.’

I suppose I have been buying quite a bit of luggage recently. But the thing is, for ages I didn’t have any, just one battered old canvas bag. Then, a few months ago I had an incredible revelation in the middle of Harrods, a bit like St Paul on the road to Mandalay. Luggage. And since then, I’ve been making up for all the lean years.

Besides which, everyone knows good luggage is an investment.

‘I’m just making a cup of tea,’ says Suze. ‘D’you want one?’

‘Ooh, yes please!’ I say. ‘And a KitKat?’ Suze grins.

‘Definitely a KitKat.’

Recently, we had this friend of Suze’s to stay on our sofa – and when he left he gave us this huge box full of a hundred KitKats. Which is such a great thank-you present, but it means all we eat, all day long, is KitKats. Still, as Suze pointed out last night, the quicker we eat them, the quicker they’ll be gone – so in a way, it’s more healthy just to stuff in as many as possible.

Suze ambles out of the room and I turn to my case. Right. Concentrate. Packing. This really shouldn't take long. All I need is a very basic, pared-down capsule wardrobe for a mini-break in Somerset. I’ve even written out a list, which should make things nice and simple.

Jeans: two pairs. Easy. Scruffy and not quite so scruffy.

T-shirts:

Actually, make that three pairs of jeans. I’ve got to take my new Diesel ones, they’re just so cool, even if they are a bit tight. I’ll just wear them for a few hours in the evening or something.

T-shirts:

Oh, and my embroidered cutoffs from Oasis, because I haven’t worn them yet. But they don’t really count because they’re practically shorts. And anyway, jeans hardly take up any room, do they?

OK, that’s probably enough jeans. I can always add some more if I need to.

T-shirts: selection. So let’s see. Plain white, obviously. Grey, ditto. Black cropped, black vest (Calvin Klein), other black vest (Warehouse but actually looks nicer), pink sleeveless, pink sparkly, pink–

I stop, halfway through transferring folded T-shirts into my case. This is stupid. How am I supposed to predict which T-shirts I'm going to want to wear? The whole point about T-shirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils. Imagine if I woke up in the mood for my ‘Elvis is Groovy’ T-shirt and I didn’t have it with me?

You know, I think I’ll just take them all. I mean, a few T-shirts aren’t going to take up much room, are they? I'll hardly even notice them.

I tip them all into my case and add a couple of cropped bra-tops for luck.

Excellent. This capsule approach is working really well. OK, what’s next?

Extract 2

…I’m a lot more sensible than I used to be.

For example, I have a completely different attitude to shopping. My new motto is ‘Buy Only What You Need’. I know, it sounds almost too simple – but it really does work. Before each purchase, I ask myself one question: ‘Do I need this?’ And only if the answer is ‘yes’ do I make the purchase. It’s all just a matter of self-discipline.

So for example, when I get to LK Bennett, I’m in­credibly focused and direct. As I walk in, a pair of red boots with high heels catches my eye – but I quickly look away, and head straight for the display of sandals. This is how I shop these days: no pausing, no browsing, no eyeing up other items. Not even that gorgeous new range of sequined pumps over there. I simply go straight to the sandals I want, take them from the rack and say to the assistant,

‘I’d like to have these in a six, please.’

Direct, and to the point. Just buy what you need and nothing else. This is the key to controlled shopping. I’m not even going to glance at those cool pink stilettos, even though they’d match my new Jigsaw cardigan perfectly.

Nor those slingbacks with the glittery heels.

They are nice though, aren’t they? I wonder what they look like on.

Oh God. This is really hard.

What is it about shoes? I mean, I like most kinds of clothes, but a fabulous pair of shoes can just reduce me to jelly. Sometimes, when no-one else is at home, I open my wardrobe and just stare at all my pairs of shoes, like some mad collector. And once I lined them all up on my bed and took a photograph of them. Which might seem a bit weird – but I thought, I’ve got loads of photos of people I don’t really like, so why not take one of something I love?

‘Here you are!’

Thank goodness, the assistant is back with my lilac sandals in a box – and as I see them, my heart gives a little leap. Oh, these are gorgeous. Gorgeous. All delicate and strappy, with a tiny little blackberry by the toe. I fell in love with them as soon as I saw them. They’re a bit expensive – but then, everyone knows you should never skimp on shoes, because you’ll hurt your feet.

I slip my feet into them with a frisson of delight – and oh God, they’re fantastic. My feet suddenly look elegant, and my legs look longer... and OK, it’s a tiny bit difficult to walk in them, but that’s probably be­cause the shop floor is all slippery.

‘I’ll take them, please,’ I say, and beam happily at the assistant.

You see, this is the reward for taking such a controlled approach to shopping. When you buy some­thing, you really feel as though you’ve earned it.

We head towards the checkout and I keep my eyes carefully away from the rack of accessories. In fact, I barely even notice that purple bag with the jet beading.

And I’m just reaching into my bag for my purse, congratulating myself on being so single-minded, when the assistant says conversationally, ‘You know, we’ve got these sandals in Clementine, as well.’

Clementine?

‘Oh... right,’ I say after a pause.

I’m not interested. I’ve got what I came in to buy – and that’s the end of the story. Lilac sandals. Not Clementine ones.

‘They’ve just come in,’ she adds, rooting around on the floor. ‘I think they’re going to be even more popular than the lilac.’

‘Really?’ I say, trying to sound as indifferent as I can. ‘Well, I’ll just take these, I think...’

‘Here it is!’ she exclaims. ‘I knew there was one around here somewhere.’

And I freeze, as she puts the most exquisite sandal I’ve ever seen onto the counter. It’s a pale, creamy orange colour, with the same strappy shape as the lilac one – but instead of the blackberry, there’s a tiny Clementine by the toe.

It’s instant love. I can’t move my eyes away.

‘Would you like to try it?’ says the girl, and I feel a lurch of desire, right to the pit of my stomach.

Just look at it. It’s delicious. It’s the most darling shoe I’ve ever seen. Oh God.

But I don’t need a pair of Clementine shoes, do I? I don’t need them.

Come on, Becky. Just. Say. No.

‘Actually...’ I swallow hard, trying to get control of my voice. ‘Actually...’ God, I can hardly say it. ‘I’ll just take the lilac ones today,’ I manage eventually. ‘Thank you.’

‘OK...’ The girl punches a code into the till. ‘That’ll be £89, then. How would you like to pay?’

‘Er... Visa card, please,’ I say. I sign the slip, take my bag, and leave the shop, feeling slightly numb.

I did it! I did it! I controlled my desires! I only needed one pair of shoes – and I only bought one. In and out of the shop, completely according to plan. You see, this is what I can do when I really want to. This is the new Becky Bloomwood.

Extract 3

Having been so good, I deserve a little reward, so I go to a coffee shop and sit down outside in the sun with a cappuccino.

I want those Clementine shoes, pops into my head as I take the first sip.

Slop. Stop it. Think about... something else. Luke. The holiday. Our first ever holiday together. God, I can’t wait.

I’ve been wanting to suggest a holiday ever since Luke and I started to go out, but he works so hard, it would be like asking the Prime Minister to give up running the country for a bit. (Except come to think of it, he does that every summer, doesn’t he? So how come Luke can’t?)

Luke’s so busy, he hasn’t even met my parents yet, which I’m a bit upset about. They asked him over for Sunday lunch, a few weeks ago, and Mum spent ages cooking – or at least, she bought apricot-stuffed loin of pork from Sainsbury’s and a really posh chocolate meringue pudding. But at the last minute he had to cancel because there was a crisis with one of his clients in the Sunday papers. So I had to go on my own – and it was all rather miserable, to be honest. You could tell Mum was really disappointed, but she kept saying brightly, ‘Oh well, it was only a casual arrangement’ – which it wasn’t. He sent her a huge bouquet of flowers the next day to apologize (or at least, Mel, his assistant, did), but it’s not the same, is it?

The worst bit was that our next-door neighbours, Janice and Martin, popped in for a glass of sherry and ‘to meet the famous Luke’, as they put it, and when they found out he wasn’t there, they kept giving me all these pitying looks tinged with smugness, because their son Tom is getting married to his girlfriend Lucy next week. And I have a horrible suspicion that they think I have a crush on him. (Which I don’t – in fact, quite the reverse. But once people believe something like that, it’s completely impossible to convince them otherwise. Oh God. Hideous.)

When I got upset with Luke, he pointed out that I’ve never met his parents, either. But that’s not quite true. I have briefly spoken to his dad and step-mum in a restaurant once, even if it wasn’t my most glittering moment. And anyway, they live in Devon, and Luke’s real mum lives in New York. So I mean, they’re not exactly handy, are they?

Still, we made up – and at least he’s making the effort to come on this little holiday. It was Mel, actually, who suggested the weekend idea. She told me Luke hadn’t had a proper holiday for three years, and maybe he had to be weaned gently on to the idea. So I stopped talking about holidays and started talking about weekends away – and that did the trick! All of a sudden Luke told me to set aside this weekend. He booked the hotel himself and everything. I’m so looking forward to it. We’ll just do nothing but relax and take it easy – and spend some time with each other for a change. Lovely.

I want those Clementine shoes.

Stop it. Stop thinking about them.

I take another sip of coffee, lean back and force myself to survey the bustling street. People are striding along, holding bags and chatting, and there’s a girl crossing the road with nice trousers on, which I think come from Nicole Farhi and... Oh God.

A middle-aged man in a dark suit is coming along the road towards me, and I recognize him. It’s Derek Smeath, my bank manager.

Oh, and I think he’s seen me.

OK, don’t panic, I instruct myself firmly. There’s no need to panic. Maybe once upon a time I would have been thrown by seeing him. I might have tried to hide behind a menu, or perhaps even run away. But that’s all in the past. These days, Sweetie Smeathie and I have a very honest and amicable relationship.

Still, I find myself shifting my chair slightly further away from my LK Bennett hag, as though it hasn’t got anything to do with me.

‘Hello, Mr Smeath!’ I say brightly as he approaches. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well,’ says Derek Smeath, smiling. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, thanks. Would you... would you like a coffee?’ I add politely, gesturing to the empty chair opposite me. I’m not really expecting him to say yes, but to my astonishment he sits down and picks up a menu.

How civilized is this? I’m having coffee with my bank manager at a pavement cafe! You know, maybe I’ll find a way to work this into my Morning Coffee slot. ‘I myself prefer the informal approach to personal finance,’ I’ll say, smiling warmly into the camera. ‘My own bank manager and I often share a friendly cappuccino as we discuss my current financial strategies...’

‘As it happens, Rebecca, I’ve just written a letter to you,’ says Derek Smeath, as a waitress puts an espresso down in front of him. Suddenly his voice is more serious and I feel a small lurch of alarm. Oh God, what have I done now? ‘You and all my customers,’ he adds. ‘To tell you that I’m leaving.’

‘What?’ I put my coffee cup down with a little crash. ‘What do you mean, leaving?’

‘I’m leaving Endwich Bank. I’ve decided to take early retirement.’

‘But...’

I stare at him, appalled. Derek Smeath can’t leave Endwich Bank. He can’t leave me in the lurch, just as everything was going so well. I mean, I know we haven’t always exactly seen eye to eye – but recently we’ve developed a really good rapport. He understands me. He understands my overdraft. What am I going to do without him?

‘Aren’t you too young to retire?’ I say, aware of the dismay in my voice. ‘Won’t you get bored?’ He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of espresso.

‘I’m not planning to give up work altogether. But I think there’s a little more to life than looking after people’s bank accounts, don’t you? Fascinating though some of them have been.’

‘Well... yes. Yes of course. And I’m glad for you, honestly.’ I shrug, a little embarrassed. ‘But I’ll... miss you.’

‘Believe it or not,’ he says, smiling slightly, ‘I think I’ll miss you too, Rebecca. Yours has certainly been one of the most... interesting accounts I’ve dealt with.’

He gives me a penetrating look and I feel myself flush slightly. Why does he have to remind me of the past? The point is, that’s all over. I’m a different person now. Surely people should be allowed to turn over new leaves and start again in life?

‘Your career in television seems to be going well,’ he says.

‘I know! It’s so great, isn’t it? And it pays really well,’ I add, a little pointedly.

‘Your income has certainly gone up in recent months,’ he says and puts down his coffee cup. My heart sinks slightly. ‘However...’

I knew it. Why does there always have to be a ‘however’? Why can’t he just be pleased for me?

‘However,’ repeats Derek Smeath. ‘Your outgoings have also risen. Substantially. In fact, your overdraft is now higher than it was at the height of your... shall we say, your excesses.’

Excesses? That is so mean.

‘You really must make more effort to keep within your overdraft limit,’ he’s saying now. ‘Or, even better, pay it off.’

‘I know,’ I say vaguely. ‘I’m planning to.’

I’ve just spotted a girl on the other side of the road, with an LK Bennett bag. She’s holding a great big bag – with two shoe boxes in it.

If she’s allowed to buy two pairs of shoes, then why aren’t I? What’s the rule that says you can only buy one pair of shoes at a time? I mean, it’s so arbitrary.

‘What about your other finances?’ Derek Smeath is asking. ‘Do you have any store card bills, for example?’

‘No,’ I say with a tinge of smugness. ‘I paid them all off months ago.’

‘And you haven’t spent anything since?’

‘Only bits and pieces. Hardly anything.’

Anyway what’s ninety quid, really? In the greater scheme of things?

‘The reason I’m asking these questions,’ says Derek Smeath, ‘is that I feel I should warn you. The bank is restructuring somewhat, and my successor, John Gavin, may not take quite the same relaxed approach as I have towards your account. I’m not sure you’re aware quite how lenient I have been with you.’

‘Really?’ I say, not really listening.

I mean, suppose I took up smoking. I’d easily spend ninety quid on cigarettes without even thinking about it, wouldn’t I?

In fact, think of all the money I’ve saved by not smoking. Easily enough to afford one little pair of shoes.

‘He’s a very capable man,’ Derek Smeath is saying. ‘But also very... rigorous. Not particularly known for his flexibility.’

‘Right,’ I say, nodding absently.

‘I would certainly recommend that you address your overdraft without delay.’ He takes a sip of coffee. ‘And tell me, have you done anything about taking out a pension?’

‘Erm... I went to visit that independent adviser you recommended.’

‘And did you fill in any of the forms?’

Unwillingly, I drag my attention back to him.

‘Well, I’m just considering my options,’ I say, and put on my wise, financial-expert look. ‘There’s nothing worse than rushing into the wrong investment, you know. Particularly when it comes to something as important as a pension.’

‘Very true,’ says Derek Smeath. ‘But don’t spend too long considering, will you? Your money won’t save itself.’

‘I know!’ I say and take a sip of cappuccino.

Oh God, now I feel a bit uncomfortable. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put £90 into a pension fund instead of buying another pair of shoes.

But on the other hand – what good is a pension fund of £90? That’s not exactly going to keep me in my old age, is it? Ninety measly quid. And by the time I’m old, the world will probably have blown up, or something.

Whereas a pair of shoes is tangible, it’s there in your hand...

Oh, sod it. I’m going to get them.

‘Mr Smeath, I have to go,’ I say abruptly, putting down my cup. ‘There’s something I have to... do.’

Now I’ve decided, I have to get back there as quickly as possible. I pick up my carrier bag and drop a fiver on the table. ‘Lovely to see you. And good luck in your retirement.’

‘Best of luck to you too, Rebecca,’ says Derek Smeath, smiling kindly at me. ‘But do remember what I’ve said. John Gavin won’t indulge you in the way that I have. So just... watch your step, won’t you?’

‘I will!’ I say brightly.

And without quite running, I’m off down the street, as quick as I can, back to LK Bennett.

Extract 4

OK, so perhaps strictly speaking I didn’t need to buy a pair of Clementine shoes. They weren’t exactly essential. But what occurred to me while I was trying them on was, I haven’t actually broken my new rule. Because the point is, I will need them.

After all, I will need new shoes at some point, won’t I? Everyone needs shoes. And surely it’s far more prudent to stock up now in a style I really like than to wait until my last pair wears out and then find nothing nice in the shops. It’s only sensible. It’s like... hedging my future position in the shoe market.

As I come out of LK Bennett, happily grasping my two shiny new bags, there’s a warm, happy glow all around me. I’m not in the mood for going home, so I decide to pop across the street to Gifts and Goodies. This is one of the shops that stocks Suze’s frames and I have a little habit of going in whenever I pass, just to see if anyone’s buying one.

I push the door open with a ping, and smile at the assistant, who looks up. This is such a lovely shop. It’s warm and scented, and full of gorgeous things like chrome wire racks and glass etched coasters. I sidle past a shelf of pale mauve leather notebooks, and look up – and there they are! Three purple tweed photo frames, made by Suze! I still get a thrill, every time I see them.

Oh my God! I feel a zing of excitement. There’s a customer standing there – and she’s holding one. She’s actually holding one!

To be perfectly honest, I’ve never actually seen any­one buying one of Suze’s frames. I mean, I know people must buy them, because they keep selling out – but I’ve never seen it happen. God, this is exciting!

I walk quietly forward just as the customer turns the frame over. She frowns at the price, and my heart gives a little flurry.

‘That’s a really beautiful photo frame,’ I say casually. ‘Really unusual.’

‘Yes,’ she says, and puts it back down on the shelf.

No! I think in dismay. Pick it up again!

‘It’s so difficult to find a nice frame these days,’ I say conversationally. ‘Don’t you think? When you find one, you should just... buy it! Before someone else gets it.’

‘I suppose so,’ says the customer, picking up a paper­weight and frowning at that, too.

Now she’s walking away. What can I do?

‘Well, I think I’ll get one,’ I say distinctly, and pick it up. ‘It’ll make a perfect present. For a man, or a woman... I mean, everyone needs photograph frames, don’t they?’

The customer doesn’t seem to be taking any notice. But never mind, when she sees me buying it, maybe she’ll rethink.

I hurry to the checkout, and the woman behind the till smiles at me. I think she’s the shop owner, because I’ve seen her interviewing staff and talking to suppliers. (Not that I come in here very often, it’s just coincidence or something.)

‘Hello again,’ she says. ‘You really like these frames, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say loudly. ‘And such fantastic value!’ But the customer’s looking at a glass decanter, and not even listening.

‘How many of them have you bought, now? It must be about... twenty?’

What? My attention snaps back to the shop owner. What’s she saying?

‘Or even thirty?’

I stare at her in shock. Has she been monitoring me, every time I’ve been in here? Isn’t that against the law?

‘Quite a collection!’ she adds pleasantly, as she wraps it up in tissue paper.

I’ve got to say something, or she’ll get the idea that it’s me buying all Suze’s frames instead of the general public. Which is ridiculous. I ask you, thirty! I’ve only bought about... four. Five, maybe.

‘I haven’t got that many!’ I say hurriedly. ‘I should think you’ve been mixing me up with... other people. And I didn’t just come in to buy a frame!’ I laugh gaily to show what a ludicrous idea that is. ‘I actually wanted some of... these, too.’ I grab randomly at some big carved wooden letters in a nearby basket, and hand them to her. She smiles, and starts laying them out on tissue paper one by one.

‘P... T... R... R.’

She stops, and looks at the letters puzzledly. ‘Were you trying to make “Peter”?’

Oh for God’s sake. Does there always have to be a reason to buy things?

‘Erm... yes,’ I say. ‘For my... my godson. He’s three.’

‘Lovely! Here we are then. Two Es, and take away the R...’

She’s looking at me kindly, as if I’m a complete halfwit. Which I suppose is fair enough, since I can’t spell ‘Peter’ and it’s the name of my own godson.

‘That’ll be... £48,’ she says, as I reach for my purse. ‘You know, if you spend £50, you get a free scented candle.’

‘Really?’ I look up with interest. I could do with a nice scented candle. And for the sake of two pounds...

‘I’m sure I could find something...’ I say, looking vaguely round the shop.

‘Spell out the rest of your godson’s name in wooden letters,’ suggests the shop owner helpfully. ‘What’s his surname?’

‘Um, Wilson,’ I say without thinking.

‘Wilson.’ And to my horror, she begins to root around in the basket. ‘W... L... here’s an О...’

‘Actually,’ I say quickly, ‘actually, better not. Because... because... his parents are divorcing and he might be going to change his surname.’

‘Really?’ says the shop owner, and pulls a sympath­etic face as she drops the letters back in. ‘How awful. Is it an acrimonious split, then?’

‘Yes,’ I say, looking around the shop for something else to buy. ‘Very. His… his mother ran off with the gardener.’

‘Are you serious?’ The shop owner's staring at me, and I suddenly notice a couple nearby listening as well. ‘She ran off with the gardener?’

‘He was... very hunky,’ I improvise, picking up a jewellery box and seeing that it costs £75. ‘She couldn’t keep her hands off him. The husband found them together in the tool shed. Anyway–‘

‘Goodness me!’ says the shop owner. ‘That sounds incredible!’

‘It’s completely true,’ chimes in a voice from across the shop.

What?

My head whips round – and the woman who was looking at Suze’s frames is walking towards me. ‘I assume you’re talking about Jane and Tim?’ she says. ‘Such a terrible scandal, wasn’t it? But I thought the little boy was called Toby.’

I stare at her, unable to speak.

‘Maybe Peter is his baptismal name,’ suggests the shop owner, and gestures to me, ‘This is his god-mother.’

‘Oh you’re the godmother!’ exclaims the woman, ‘Yes, I’ve heard all about you.’

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

‘Now, perhaps you can tell me.’ The woman comes forward and lowers her voice confidentially. ‘Did Tim accept Maud’s offer?’

I look around the silent shop. Everyone is waiting for my answer.

‘Yes he did,’ I say carefully. ‘He did accept.’

‘And did it work out?’ she asks, staring at me agog.

‘Um... no. He and Maud actually... they... they had a fight.’

‘Really?’ The woman lifts a hand to her mouth. ‘A fight? What about?’

‘Oh, you know,’ I say desperately. This and that... the washing up... erm, actually, I think I’ll pay by cash.’ I fumble in my purse, and plonk £50 on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’

‘What about your scented candle?’ says the shop owner. ‘You can choose from vanilla, sandalwood–’

‘Never mind,’ I say, hurrying towards the door.

‘Wait!’ calls the woman urgently. ‘What happened to Ivan?’

‘He... emigrated to Australia,’ I say, and slam the door behind me.

God, that was a bit close. I think I’d better go home.

Extract 5

Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I won’t cope with the pace of New York. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, me moving here with him.

A group of sightseers has already assembled – mostly much older than me – and they’re all listening to a young, enthusiastic man who’s saying something about the Statue of Liberty.

‘Hi there!’ he says, breaking off as I approach. ‘Are you here for the tour?’

‘Yes please,’ I say.

‘And your name?’

‘Rebecca Bloomwood,’ I say, flushing a little as all the others turn to look at me. ‘I paid at the desk, earlier.’

‘Well, hi Rebecca!’ says the man, ticking something off on his list. ‘I’m Christoph. Welcome to our group. Got your walking shoes on?’ He looks down at my boots (bright purple, kitten heel, last year’s Bertie sale) and his cheery smile falters. ‘You realize this is a three-hour tour? All on foot?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say in surprise. ‘That’s why I put these boots on.’

‘Right,’ says Christoph after a pause. ‘Well – OK.’ He looks around. ‘I think that’s it, so let’s start our tour!’

He leads the way out of the hotel, onto the street, and as everyone else follows him briskly along the pave­ment, I find myself walking slowly, staring upwards. It’s an amazingly clear, fresh day with almost blinding sunlight bouncing off the pavements and buildings. I look around, completely filled with awe. God, this city is an incredible place. I mean, obviously I knew that New York would be full of tall skyscrapers. But it’s only when you’re actually standing in the street, staring up at them, that you realize how... well, how huge they are. I gaze up at the tops of the buildings against the sky, until my neck is aching and I’m starting to feel dizzy. Then slowly my eyes wander down, floor by floor to shop-window level. And I find myself staring at two words. ‘Prada’ and ‘Shoes’.

Ooh.

Prada shoes. Right in front of me.

I’ll just have a really quick look.

As the others march on, I hurry up to the window and stare at a pair of deep brown pumps. God those are divine. I wonder how much they are? You know, maybe Prada is really cheap over here. Maybe I should just pop in and–

‘Rebecca?’

With a start I come to and look round – to see the tour group twenty yards down the street, all staring at me.

‘Sorry,’ I say, and reluctantly pull myself away from the window. ‘I’m coming.’

‘There’ll be time for shopping later,’ says Christoph cheerfully.

‘I know,’ I say, and give a relaxed laugh. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t worry about it!’

Of course, he’s quite right. There’ll be plenty of time to go shopping. Plenty of time.

Right. I’m really going to concentrate on the tour.

‘So Rebecca,’ says Christoph brightly, as I rejoin the group. ‘I was just telling the others that we’re heading down East 57th Street to Fifth Avenue, the most famous avenue of New York City.’

‘Great!’ I say. ‘That sounds really good!’

‘Fifth Avenue serves as a dividing line between the “East Side” and the “West Side”,’ continues Christoph. ‘Anyone interested in history will like to know that...’

I’m nodding intelligently as he speaks, and trying to look interested. But as we walk down the street, my head keeps swivelling from left to right, like some­one watching a tennis game. Christian Dior, Hermes, Chanel... This street is incredible. If only we could just slow down a bit, and have a proper look – but Christoph is marching on ahead like a hike leader, and everybody else in the group is following him happily, not even glancing at the amazing sights around them. Don’t they have eyes in their heads?

‘... where we’re going to take in two well-known landmarks: the Rockefeller Center, which many of you will associate with ice skating...’

We swing round a corner – and my heart gives a swoop of excitement. Tiffany’s. It’s Tiffany’s, right in front of me! I must just have a quick peek. I mean, this is what New York is all about, isn’t it? Little blue boxes, and while ribbon, and those gorgeous silver beans... I sidle up to the window and stare longingly at the beautiful display. Wow. That necklace is absolutely stunning. Oh God, and look at that watch. I wonder how much something like that would–

‘Hey, everybody, wait up!’ rings out Christoph’s voice. I look up – and they’re all bloody miles ahead again. How come they walk so fast, anyway? ‘Are you OK there, Rebecca?’ he calls, with a slightly forced cheeriness. ‘You’re going to have to try to keep up. We have a lot of ground to cover!’

‘Sorry,’ I say, and scuttle towards the group. ‘Just having a quick little look at Tiffany’s.’ I grin at the woman next to me, expecting her to smile back. But she looks at me blankly and pulls her hood more tightly over her head.

‘As I was saying,’ he says as we stride off again, ‘the grid system of Manhattan means that…’

And for a while I really try to concentrate. But it’s no good. I can’t listen. I mean, come on. This is Fifth Avenue! Everywhere I look, there are fabulous shops. There's Gucci – and that’s the hugest Gap I’ve ever seen in my life... and oh God, look at that window display over there! And we’re just walking straight past Armani Exchange and no-one’s even pausing...

I mean, what is wrong with these people? Are they complete philistines?

We walk on a bit further, and I’m trying my best to catch a glimpse inside a window full of amazing-looking hats when... oh my God. Just... just look there. It’s Saks Fifth Avenue. Right there, a matter of yards away. One of the most famous department stores in the world. Floors and floors of clothes and shoes and bags... And thank God, at last, Christoph is coming to his senses, and stopping.

‘This is one of New York’s most famous landmarks,’ he’s saying, with a gesture. ‘Many New Yorkers regularly visit this magnificent place of worship – once a week or even more often. Some even make it here daily! We don’t have time to do more than have a quick look inside – hut those that are interested can always make a return trip.’

‘Is it very old?’ asks a man with a Scandinavian accent.

‘The building dates from 1879,’ says Christoph, ‘and was designed by James Renwick.’

Come on, I think impatiently, as someone else asks a question about the architecture. Come on. Who cares who designed it? Who cares about the stonework? It’s what’s inside that matters.

‘Shall we go in?’ says Christoph at last.

‘Absolutely!’ I say joyfully, and hurry off towards the entrance.

It’s only as my hand is actually on the door that I realize no-one else is with me. Where’ve they all gone? Puzzled, I look back – and the rest of the group is processing into a big stone church, outside which there’s a board reading ‘St Patrick’s Cathedral’.

Oh.

Oh, I see. When he said ‘magnificent place of worship’ he meant...

Right. Of course.

I hesitate, hand on the door, feeling torn. Oh God, maybe I should go into the cathedral. Maybe I should take in some culture and come back to Saks later.

But then – is that going to help me get to know whether I want to live in New York or not? Looking around some boring old cathedral?

Put it like this: how many millions of cathedrals do we have in England? And how many branches of Saks Fifth Avenue?

‘Are you going in?’ says an impatient voice behind me.

‘Yes!’ I say, coming to a decision. ‘Absolutely. I’m going in.’

I push my way through the heavy wooden doors and into the store, feeling almost sick with anticipation. I haven’t felt this excited since Octagon relaunched their designer floor and I was invited to the cardholders’ champagne reception.

I mean, visiting any shop for the first time is exciting. There’s always that buzz as you push open the door; that hope; that belief – that this is going to be the shop of all shops, which will bring you everything you ever wanted, at magically low prices. But this is a thousand times better. A million times. Because this isn’t just any old shop, is it? This is a world-famous shop. I’m actually here. I’m in Saks on Fifth Avenue in New York. As I walk slowly into the store – forcing myself not to rush – I feel as though I’m setting off for a date with a Hollywood movie star.

I wander through the perfumery, gazing around at the elegant art deco panelling; the high, airy ceilings; the foliage everywhere. God, this has to be one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever been in. At the back are old-fashioned lifts which make you feel you’re in a film with Cary Grant, and on a little table is a pile of store directories. I pick one up, just to get my bearings... and I don’t quite believe it. There are ten floors to this store.

Ten floors. Ten.

I stare at the list, transfixed. I feel like a child trying to choose a sweetie in a chocolate factory. Where am I going to start? How should I do this? Start at the top? Start at the bottom? Oh God, all these names, jumping out at me, calling to me. Anna Sui. Calvin Klein. Kate Spade. Kiehl’s. I think I’m going to hyperventilate.

‘Excuse me?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to see a girl with a Saks name badge smiling at me. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Um... yes,’ I say, still staring at the directory. ‘I’m just trying to work out where to start, really.’

‘Were you interested in clothes? Or accessories? Or shoes?’

‘Yes,’ I say dazedly. ‘Both. All. Everything. Erm... a bag,’ I say randomly. ‘I need a new bag!’

Which is true. I mean, I’ve brought bags with me – but you can always do with a new bag, can’t you? Plus, I’ve been noticing that all the women in Manhattan seem to have very smart designer bags – so this is a very good way of acclimatizing myself to the city.

The girl gives me a friendly smile.

‘Bags and accessories are through there,’ she says, pointing. ‘You might want to start there and work your way up?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’ll do. Thanks!’

Extract 6

God, I adore shopping abroad. I mean, shopping any­where is always great – but the advantages of doing it abroad are:

1. You can buy things you can’t get in Britain.

2. You can name-drop when you get back home. (‘Actually, I picked this up in New York.’)

3. Foreign money doesn’t count, so you can spend as much as you like.

OK, I know that last one isn’t entirely true. Some­where in my head I know that dollars are proper money, with a real value. But I mean, look at them. I just can’t take them seriously. I’ve got a whole wodge of them in my purse, and I feel as though I’m carrying around the bank from a Monopoly set. Yesterday I went and bought some magazines from a newsstand, and as I handed over a $20 bill, it was just like playing shop. It’s like some weird form of jet-lag – you move into another currency and suddenly feel as though you’re spending nothing.

So as I walk around the bag department, trying out gorgeous bag after gorgeous bag, I’m not taking too much notice of the prices. Occasionally I lift a price tag and make a feeble attempt to work out how much that is in real money – but I have to confess, I can’t remember the exact exchange rate. And even if I could, I’ve never been very good at sums.

But the point is, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to worry, because this is America, and everyone knows that prices in America are really low. It’s common knowledge, isn’t it? So basically, I’m working on the principle that everything’s a bargain. I mean, look at all these gorgeous designer handbags. They’re probably half what they’d cost in England, if not less!

Eventually I choose a beautiful Kate Spade bag in tan leather, and take it up to the counter. It costs $500, which sounds quite a lot – but then, ‘a million lire’ sounds a lot too, doesn’t it? And that’s, only about 50p.

As the assistant hands me my receipt, she even says something about it being ‘a gift’ – and I beam in agreement.

‘A complete gift! I mean, in London, it would probably cost–’

‘Gina, are you going upstairs?’ interrupts the woman, turning to a colleague. ‘Gina will show you to the seventh floor,’ she says, and smiles at me.

‘Right,’ I say, in slight confusion. ‘Well... OK.’

Gina beckons me briskly and, after a moment’s hesi­tation, I follow her, wondering what’s on the seventh floor. Maybe some complimentary lounge for Kate Spade customers, with free champagne or something!

It’s only as we're approaching a department entitled ‘Gift Wrapping’ that I realize what’s going on. When I said ‘gift’, she must have thought I meant it was an actual–

‘Here we are,’ says Gina brightly. ‘The Saks signature box is complimentary – or choose from a range of quality wrap.’

‘Right!’ I say. ‘Well... thanks very much! Although actually, I wasn’t really planning to–’

But Gina has already gone, and the two ladies behind the gift wrap counter are smiling encouragingly at me.

Oh God, this is a bit embarrassing. What am I going to do?

‘Have you decided which paper you’d like?’ says the elder of the two ladies, beaming at me. ‘We also have a choice of ribbons and adornments.’

Oh sod it. I’ll get it wrapped. I mean, it only costs $7.50 – and it’ll be nice to have something to open when I get back to the hotel room, won’t it?

‘Yes!’ I say, and beam back. ‘I’d like that silver paper, please, and some purple ribbon... and one of those clusters of silver berries.’

The lady reaches for the paper and deftly begins to wrap up my bag – more neatly than I’ve ever wrapped anything in my life. And you know, this is quite fun! Maybe I should always get my shopping gift-wrapped.

‘Who’s it to?’ says the lady, opening a card and taking out a silver pen.

‘Um... to Becky,’ I say vaguely. Some girls have come into the gift wrap room, and I’m slightly intrigued by their conversation.

‘...fifty per cent off...’

‘...sample sale...’

‘...Earl jeans...’

‘And who is it from?’ says the gift wrap lady pleas­antly.

‘Um... from Becky,’ I say without thinking. The gift wrap lady gives me a rather strange look and I suddenly realize what I’ve said. ‘A... a different Becky,’ I add awkwardly.

‘...sample sale...’

‘...Alexander McQueen, pale blue, 80 per cent off...’

‘...sample sale...’

‘...sample sale...’

Oh, I can’t bear this any longer.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, turning round. ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation – but I just have to know one thing. What is a sample sale?’

The whole gift wrap area goes quiet. Everyone is staring at me, even the lady with the silver pen.

‘You don’t know what a sample sale is?’ says a girl in a leather jacket eventually, as though I’ve said I don’t know my alphabet.

‘Erm... no,’ I say, feeling myself flush red. ‘No, I... I don’t.’ The girl raises her eyebrows, reaches in her bag, rummages around, and finally pulls out a card. ‘Honey, this is a sample sale.’

I take the card from her, and as I read, my skin starts to prickle with excitement.

SAMPLE SALE

Designer clothes, 50–70% off

Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garcons, Gucci

Bags, shoes, hosiery, 40–60% off

Prada, Fendi, Lagerfeld

‘Is this for real?’ I breathe at last, looking up. ‘I mean, could... could I go to it?’

‘Oh yuh,’ says the girl. ‘It’s for real. But it’ll only last a day.’

‘A day?’ My heart starts to thump in panic. ‘Just one day?’

‘One day,’ affirms the girl solemnly. I glance at the other girls, and they’re nodding in agreement.

‘Sample sales come without much warning,’ explains one.

‘They can be anywhere. They just appear overnight.’

‘Then they’re gone. Vanished.’

‘And you just have to wait for the next one.’

I look from face to face, utterly mesmerized. I feel like an explorer learning about some mysterious nomadic tribe.

‘So you wanna catch this one today,’ says the girl in the leather jacket, tapping the card and bringing me back to life, ‘you’d better hurry.’

I have never moved as fast as I do out of that shop. Clutching my Saks Fifth Avenue carrier, I hail a taxi, breathlessly read out the address on the card, and sink back into my seat.

I have no idea where we’re heading or what famous landmarks we’re passing – but I don’t care. As long as there are designer clothes on sale, then that’s all I need to know.

We come to a stop, and I pay the driver, making sure I tip him about 50 per cent so he doesn’t think I’m some stingy English tourist – and, heart thumping, I get out. And I have to admit, on first impressions, things are not promising. I’m in a street full of rather uninspiring shop fronts and office blocks. On the card it said the sample sale was at 405, but when I follow the numbers along the road, 405 turns out to be just another office building. Am I in the wrong place altogether? I walk along the pavement for a little bit, peering up at the buildings – but there are no clues. I don’t even know which district I’m in.

Suddenly I feel deflated and rather stupid. I was supposed to be going on a nice organized walking tour today – and what have I done instead? I’ve gone rushing off to some strange part of the city, where I’ll probably get mugged any minute. In fact, the whole thing was probably a scam, I think morosely. I mean, honestly. Designer clothes at 70 per cent discount? I should have realized it was far too good to be–

Hang on. Just... hang on a minute.

Another taxi is pulling up, and a girl in a Miu Miu dress is getting out. She consults a piece of paper, walks briskly along the pavement, and disappears inside the door of 405. A moment later, two more girls appear along the street – and as I watch, they go inside, too.

Maybe this is the right place.

I push open the glass doors, walk into a shabby foyer furnished with plastic chairs, and nod nervously at the concierge sitting at the desk.

‘Erm... excuse me,’ I say politely. ‘I was looking for the–’

‘Twelfth floor,’ he says in a bored voice. ‘Elevators are in the rear.’

I hurry towards the back of the foyer, summon one of the rather elderly lifts and press 12. Slowly and creakily the lift rises – and I begin to hear a kind of faint babble, rising in volume as I get nearer. The lift pings and the doors open and... Oh my God. Is this the queue?

A line of girls is snaking back from a door at the end of the corridor. They’re pressing forwards, and all have the same urgent look in their eyes. Every so often somebody pushes their way out of the door, holding a carrier bag – and about three girls push their way in. Then, just as I join the end of the line, there’s a rattling sound, and a woman opens up a door, a few yards behind me.

‘Another entrance this way,’ she calls. ‘Come this way!’

In front of me, a whole line of heads whips round. There’s a collective intake of breath – and then it’s like a tidal wave of girls, all heading towards me. I find myself running towards the door, just to avoid being knocked down – and suddenly I’m in the middle of the room, slightly shaken, as everybody else peels off and heads for the rails.

I look around, trying to get my bearings. There are rails and rails of clothes, tables covered in bags and shoes and scarves and girls sorting through them. I can spot Ralph Lauren knitwear... a rail full of fabulous coats... there’s a stack of Prada bags... I mean, this is like a dream come true!

Conversation is high-pitched and excited, and as I look around, I can hear snippets floating around.

‘I have to have it,’ a girl is saying, holding up a coat against herself. ‘I just have to have it.’

‘OK, what I’m going to do is, I’m just going to put the $450 I spent today on to my mortgage,’ another girl is saying to her friend as they walk out, laden with bags. ‘I mean, what’s $450 over thirty years?’

‘One hundred per cent cashmere!’ someone else is exclaiming. ‘Did you see this? It’s only $50! I’m going to take three.’

I look around the bright, buzzing room, at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new stuff. And I feel a sudden warmth; an overwhelming realization. These are my people. This is where I belong. I’ve found my homeland.

Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons on a complete high. I’m laden with carrier bags, and I can’t tell you what unbelievable bargains I picked up. A fantastic buttermilk leather coat, which is a teeny bit tight but I’m sure I’ll soon lose a couple of pounds. (And anyway, leather stretches.) Plus a really gorgeous printed chiffon top, and some silver shoes, and a purse! And the whole lot only came to $500!

Extract 7

…I’ll go to the Guggenheim right now. Right this minute. Just as soon as I’ve bought my makeup and got my free gift.

I stuff my basket full of beauty goodies, hurry up to the checkout, and sign the credit slip without even looking at it, then go out to the crowded street. Right. It’s 3.30, which gives me plenty of time to get up there and immerse myself in some culture. Excellent, I’m really looking forward to it, actually.

I’m standing on the edge of the pavement, holding out my hand for a taxi, when I spot a gorgeous, glowing shop called Kate’s Paperie. Without quite meaning to, I let my hand drop, and start edging slowly towards the window. Just look at that. Look at that display of marbled wrapping paper. And that decoupage box. And that amazing beaded ribbon.

OK, what I’ll do is, I’ll just pop in and have a quick look. Just for five minutes. And then I’ll go to the Guggenheim.

I push the door open and walk slowly around, marvelling at the arrangements of beautiful wrapping paper adorned with dried flowers, raffia and bows, the photograph albums, the boxes of exquisite writing paper... And oh God, just look at the greetings cards!

You see, this is it. This is why New York is so great. They don’t just have boring old cards saying Happy Birthday. They have handmade creations with twinkly flowers and witty collages, saying things like ‘Con­gratulations on adopting twins!’ and ‘So sad to hear you broke up!’

I walk up and down, utterly dazzled by the array. I just have to have some of these. Like this fantastic pop-up castle, with the flag reading ‘I love your re­modeled home!’ I mean, I don’t actually know anyone who’s remodelling their home, but I can always keep it until Mum decides to repaper the hall. And this one covered in fake grass, saying ‘To a smashing tennis coach with thanks’. Because I’m planning to have some tennis lessons next summer, and I’ll want to thank my coach, won’t I?

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 short-sighted not to. I mean, Suze and I might easily hold a pizza party, mightn’t we? And we’ll never find invitations like this in Britain. They’re so sweet, with glittery little pizza slices all the way down the sides. I carefully put ten 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 to live in New York, I’m going to have to get used to sending expensive cards the whole time, so really, this is a form of acclimatization.

Plus, what’s the point of having a nice new credit card limit and not using it? Exactly. And I can put it all down on my budget as ‘unavoidable business expenses’.

As I sign my slip, I notice a girl in jeans and a hat hovering behind a display of business cards, who looks strangely familiar. I peer at her curiously – and then realize where I recognize her from.

‘Hello,’ I say, giving her a friendly smile. ‘Didn’t I see you at the sample sale yesterday? Did you find any bargains?’

But instead of replying, she quickly turns away. Hurrying out of the shop, she bumps into someone and mutters ‘Sorry’. And to my astonishment, she’s got a British accent. Well, that’s bloody unfriendly, isn’t it? Ignoring a compatriot on foreign soil. God, no wonder people say the British are aloof.

Right. I really am going to go to the Guggenheim now. As I come out of Kate’s Paperie, I realize I don’t know which way I should be facing to catch a cab, and I stand still for a moment, wondering which way is north. Something flashes brightly across the street, and I screw up my face, wondering if it’s going to rain. But the sky is clear, and nobody else seems to have noticed it. Maybe it’s one of those New York things, like steam coming up from the pavement.

Anyway. Concentrate. Guggenheim.

‘Excuse me?’ I say to a woman walking past. ‘Which way is the Guggenheim?’

‘Down the street,’ she says, jerking her thumb.

‘Right,’ I say, confused. ‘Thanks.'’

That can’t be right. I thought the Guggenheim was miles away from here, by Central Park. How can it be down the street? She must be a foreigner. I’ll ask somebody else.

Except they all walk so bloody fast, it’s hard to get anyone’s attention.

‘Hey,’ I say, practically grabbing the arm of a man in a suit. ‘For the Guggenheim–’

‘Right there,’ he says, nodding his head, and hurries off.

What on earth are they all talking about? I’m sure Kent said that the Guggenheim was right up near the... near the...

Hang on a minute.

I stop dead in the street, staring in astonishment.

I don’t believe it. There it is! There’s a sign hanging up ahead of me – and it says GUGGENHEIM SOHO, as large as life.

What’s going on? Has the Guggenheim moved? Are there two Guggenheims?

As I walk towards the doors, I see that 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 Britain and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo?

Guggenheim SoHo. That sounds so cool!

Cautiously I push the door open – and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and places to sit down 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?’

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! 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, too. I'm going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.

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, like thingummy girl’s bed. 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 and find myself reading the words ‘Guggenheim Museum Store’.

What?

Is this a–

I lift my head and look around, bewildered.

Am I in a shop?

Now 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.

Oh God.

Now I feel really stupid. How could I have not recognized a shop? But... this makes less and less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own? With no museum attached?

‘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?’

‘Way up by the park.’

‘Right. OK.’ I look at him in confusion. ‘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 don’t have to look at the art at all? You can just shop?’ My voice rises in delight. ‘This city just gets better and better! It’s perfect!’ 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 call you a cab. Did you want to pay a visit?’

‘Erm...’

Now, let’s just think for a moment. 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 go to the Guggenheim. I could get in a cab, and whiz up to wherever it is, and spend all afternoon looking at pieces of art.

Or else... I could just buy a book about the Guggenheim... and spend the rest of the afternoon shopping.

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 taken in some pretty good culture already. Exactly.

And it’s not as if I rush out of the shop. I stay there for at least ten minutes, browsing through the literature and soaking up the cultured atmosphere. In the end I buy a big heavy book which I will give to Luke, plus a really cool mug for Suze, some pencils and a calendar for my mum.

Excellent. Now I can really go shopping! As I walk off, I feel all liberated and happy, as though I’ve been given a surprise day off school. I head down Broadway and turn off on one of the side roads, stepping past stalls selling fake handbags and colourful hair accessories, and a guy playing the guitar not very well. Soon I find myself wandering down a gorgeous little cobbled street, and then down another. On either side there are big old red buildings with fire escapes running up and down them, and trees planted in the pavements, and the atmosphere is suddenly a lot more laid back than it was on Broadway. You know, I could definitely get used to living here. No problem.

And oh God, the shops! Each one is more inviting than the next. One is full of painted velvet dresses hanging on pieces of antique furniture. Another has walls painted to look like clouds, racks of fluffy frou-frou party dresses and bowls of sweets every­where. Another is all black and while and art deco, like a Fred Astaire movie. And just look at this one!

I stop on the pavement and stare open-mouthed at a mannequin wearing nothing but a transparent plastic shirt, which has a goldfish swimming about in the pocket. That has to be the most amazing piece of clothing I’ve ever seen.

You know – I’ve always secretly wanted to wear a piece of real avant-garde fashion. I mean, God, how cool would it be to have some cutting edge piece of clothing and telling everyone you bought it in SoHo. At least... Am I still in SoHo? Maybe this is NoLita. Or... NoHo? SoLita? To be honest, I’m not sure where I am by now, and I don’t want to look at my map in case everyone thinks I’m a tourist.

Anyway, wherever it is, I don’t care. I’m going in.

I push open the heavy door and walk into the shop, which is completely empty apart from a smell of incense and some strange, booming music. I walk up to a rail and, trying to look nonchalant, begin to finger the clothes. God, this stuff is way out. There’s a pair of trousers about ten feet long, and a plain white shirt with a plastic hood, and a skirt made out of corduroy and newspaper, which is quite nice – but what happens when it rains?

‘Hello,’ says a guy coming up. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and very tight trousers – completely silver apart from the crotch, which is denim, and very... Well. Prominent.

‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound as cool as possible and not look at his crotch.

‘How are you today?’

‘Fine, thanks!’

‘Would you like to try anything?’

Come on, Becky. Don’t be a wimp. Choose some­thing.

‘Erm… yes. This!’ I say, and grab for a purple jumper with a funnel neck which seems quite nice. ‘This one, please.’ And I follow him to the back, where the fitting cubicle is made out of sheets of zinc.

It’s only as I’m taking the jumper off th

Date: 2015-01-29; view: 1052