Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

“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 toward the back of the foyer, summon one of the rather elderly lifts, and press twelve. Slowly and creakily the lift rises—and I begin to hear a kind of faint hubbub, rising in volume as I get nearer. The lift suddenly 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. Girls in cashmere coats, girls in black suits, girls tossing their springy ponytails around, and chattering excitedly into their mobile phones. There's not a single one who isn't wearing full makeup and smart shoes and carrying some sort of designer bag, even if it's the teeniest little Louis Vuitton coin purse—and the babble of conversation is peppered with names of fashion houses. They're all pressing forward, firmly moving their stilettos inch by inch along the floor, and all have the same urgent look in their eyes. Every so often somebody pushes their way out of the door, holding an enormous, nameless 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 toward me. I find myself running toward 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 racks.

  I look around, trying to get my bearings. There are racks and racks of clothes, tables covered in bags and shoes and scarves. I can already spot Ralph Lauren knitwear . . . a rack full of fabulous coats . . . there's a stack of Prada bags . . . I mean, this is like a dream come true! Everywhere I look, girls are feverishly sorting through garments, looking for labels, trying out bags. Their manicured nails are descending on the stuff like the claws of birds of prey and I can't believe quite how fast they're working. As I see the girl who was standing in front of me in the line, I feel a surge of panic. She's got a whole armful of stuff, and I haven't even started. If I don't get in there, everything will be gone. I have to grab something now!

  I fight my way through to one of the racks and start leafing through chiffon pleated dresses. Three hundred dollars, reduced to seventy dollars! I mean, even if you only wore it once . . . And oh God, here are some fantastic print trousers, some label I've never heard of, but they're reduced by 90 percent! And a leather coat . . . and those Prada bags. I have to get one of the Prada bags!

  As I breathlessly reach for one, my hand collides with another girl's.

  “Hey!” she says at once, and snatches the bag up. “I was there first!”

  “Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . sorry!” I quickly grab another one which, to be honest, looks exactly the same. As the girl starts examining the interior of her bag, I can't help staring at her nails. They're filed into square shapes and carefully decorated in two different shades of pink. How long did that take to do? As she looks up, I see her hair is two-tone as well—brown with aubergine tips—while her mouth is carefully lined with purple and filled in with pale mauve.

  “Got a problem?” she says, suddenly looking at me, and I jump.

  “No! I was just wondering—where's the changing room?”

  “Changing room?” She chuckles. “Are you kidding? No such thing.”

  “Oh.” I look around again, and notice a spectacular black girl, about nine feet tall, stripping off to her bra and knickers. “I see. So we . . . change right here? Great!” I swallow. “No problem at all.”

  Hesitantly I start unbuttoning my coat, telling myself that I've got no alternative—and no one's watching anyway. But Two-Tone Girl's expression is changing as she gazes at me.

  “Are you British?”

  “Yes! Did you recognize my accent?”

  “I love the British!” Her eyes light up. “That film, Notting Hill? I loved that!”

  “Oh right! So did I, actually.”

  “That Welsh guy. He was hilarious!” She suddenly frowns as I step out of my shoes. “Hey, but wait. You shouldn't have to get changed out here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you're British! Everyone knows the Brits are reserved. It's like . . . your national disease or something.”

  “Honestly, it's fine . . .”

  “Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it.” To my horror the girl strides over and pokes the woman in black standing by the door. “Excuse me? This girl is British. She needs privacy to try on her things. OK?”

  The woman turns to stare at me as though I'm a Martian and I smile nervously back.

  “Really, don't worry. I don't mind . . .”

  “She needs privacy!” insists the girl. “They're different than us. It's a whole other culture. Can she go behind those racks there?”

  “Please. I don't want to—”

  “Whatever,” says the woman, rolling her eyes. “Just don't mess up the displays.”

  “Thanks,” I say to the girl, a little awkwardly. “I'm Becky, by the way.”

  “Jodie.” She gives me a wide grin. “Love your boots!”

  I disappear behind the rack and begin trying on all the clothes I've gathered. With each one I feel a little frisson of delight—and when I get to the Prada bag, it's a surge of pure joy. Prada at 50 percent off! I mean, this would make the whole trip worthwhile, just on its own.

  When I've eventually finished, I come out from behind the rack to see Jodie wriggling into a stretchy white dress.

  “This sample sale is so great!” she exclaims. “I'm just like . . . where do I stop?”

  “I know what you mean.” I give her a blissful smile. “That dress looks great, by the way.”

  “Are you going to buy all that?” she says, giving my armload an impressed look.

  “Not all of it.” I reach into the pile. “Not . . . these trousers. But everything else.”

  “Cool! Go, girl.”

  As I happily head toward the paying table, the room is reverberating with high-pitched female voices and I can hear snippets of conversation 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 onto 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 percent cashmere!” someone else is exclaiming. “Did you see this? It's only fifty dollars! I'm going to take three.”

  I dump my stuff on the table and look around the bright, buzzing room at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new gorgeous things. And I feel a sudden warmth, an overwhelming realization. These are my people. I've found my homeland.

  Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons, still on a complete high. After the sample sale, I ended up going out for a “welcome to New York” coffee with Jodie. We sat at a marble table, sipping our decaf Frappuccinos and nibbling at nonfat cranberry muffins, and both worked out exactly how much money we'd saved on our bargains ($1,230 in my case!). We agreed to meet up again during my visit—and then Jodie told me all about this amazing Web site that sends you information on these kind of events every day. Every day! I mean, the possibilities are limitless. You could spend your whole life going to sample sales!

  You know. In theory.

  I go up to our room—and as I open the door I see Luke sitting at the desk, reading through some papers.

  “Hi!” I say breathlessly, dumping my bags on the enormous bed. “Listen, I need to use the laptop.”

  “Oh right,” says Luke. “Sure.” He picks up the laptop from the desk and hands it to me, and I go and sit on the bed. I open the laptop, consult th
e piece of paper Jodie gave me, and type in the address.

  “So, how was your day?” asks Luke.

  “It was great!” I say, tapping the keys impatiently. “I made a new friend, and I saw lots of the city . . . Ooh, and look in that blue bag! I got you some really nice shirts!”

  “Did you start to get a feel for the place?”

  “Oh, I think so. I mean, obviously it's early . . .” I frown at the screen. “Come on, already.”

  “But you weren't too overwhelmed?”

  “Mmm . . . not really,” I say absently. Aha! Suddenly the screen is filling up with images. A row of little sweeties at the top—and logos saying, It's fun. It's fashion. In New York City. The Daily Candy home page!

  I click on “Subscribe” and briskly start to type in my e-mail details, as Luke gets up and comes toward me, a concerned look on his face.

  “So tell me, Becky,” he says. “I know it must all seem very strange and daunting to you. I know you couldn't possibly find your feet in just one day. But on first impressions—do you think you could get used to New York? Do you think you could ever see yourself living here?”

  I type the last letter with a flourish, press “Send,” and look at him thoughtfully.

  “You know what? I think I probably could.”

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd.

  London SW6 8FD

  UNITED KINGDOM

  September 28, 2000

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  Thank you for your completed U.S. immigration forms. As you know, the authorities will wish to evaluate the assets and unique talents which you can bring to this country.

  Under section B69 referring to special abilities, you write, “I'm really good at chemistry, ask anyone at Oxford.” We did in fact contact the vice-chancellor of Oxford University, who failed to display any familiarity with your work.

  As did the British Olympic long-jump coach.

  We enclose fresh forms and request that you fill them out again.

  With kind regards,

  Edgar Forlano

  Nine

  TWO DAYS LATER, I'm feeling quite dazzled by all the sights and sounds of New York. I've walked so many blocks my feet ache, and I've really seen some awe-inspiring things. Like, in Bloomingdale's, they have a chocolate factory! And there's a whole district full of nothing but shoe shops!

  I keep trying to get Luke along to look at all these amazing sights—but he just has meeting after meeting. He's seeing about twenty people a day—wooing potential clients and networking with media people, and even looking round office spaces in the financial district. As he said yesterday at breakfast, he needs to hit the ground running when he arrives. I was about to make a little joke about “Break a leg!” . . . but then I decided against it. Luke's taking everything a bit seriously at the moment.

  As well as setting up the new company, he's had briefings from Alicia in London every morning—and she keeps sending through faxes for him to approve, and needlessly long e-mails. I just know she's only doing it all to show off to Luke—and the really annoying thing is, it's working. Like, a couple of clients rang up to complain about things, but when he called Alicia she had already leapt into action and sorted it out. So then I had to hear for fifteen minutes about how marvelous she is, and what a great job she's doing—and keep nodding my head as though I completely agreed. But I still can't stand her. She rang up the other morning when Luke was out, and when I picked up, she said “So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep!” in this really patronizing way, and rang off before I could think of a good reply.

  Still, never mind. On the positive side, Luke and I did manage to get our walk in Central Park—even if it was only for five minutes. And one afternoon, Luke took me on the Staten Island Ferry, which was fantastic—except for the moment when I lost my new baseball cap overboard.

  Obviously, I didn't mean to shriek so loudly. Nor did I mean for that old woman to mishear and think I'd lost my “cat”—and I certainly didn't want her to insist the boat should be stopped. It caused a bit of a kerfuffle, actually, which was rather embarrassing. Still, never mind—as Luke said, at least all those tourists with their video cameras had something to film.

  But now it's Wednesday morning. The holiday is over—and I've got a slight dentisty feeling of dread. It's my first appointment today with a pair of important TV people from HLBC. I'm actually quite scared.

  Luke's left early for a breakfast meeting with Michael and some top PR headhunter who's going to supply him with staff, so I'm left alone in bed, sipping coffee and nibbling at a croissant, and telling myself not to get nervous. The key is not to panic, but to stay calm and cool. As Luke kept reassuring me, this meeting is not an interview as such, it's simply a first-stage introduction. A “getting-to-know-you” lunch, he called it.

  But in a way, lunch is even more scary than an interview. What if I knock something over? What if I don't tip all the right people? What if I can't think of anything to say and we sit there in an embarrassing silence?

  I spend all morning in our room, trying to read the Wall Street Journal and watching CNN—but that only freaks me out even more. I mean, these American television presenters are so slick and immaculate. They never fluff their words, and they never make jokes, and they know everything. Like who's the trade secretary of Iraq, and the implications of global warming for Peru. And here I am, thinking I can do what they do.

  My other problem is, I haven't done a proper interview for years. Morning Coffee never bothered to interview me, I just kind of fell into it. And for my old job on Successful Saving, I just had a cozy chat with Philip, the editor, who already knew me from press conferences. So the idea of having to impress a pair of complete strangers from scratch is completely terrifying.

  “Just be yourself,” Luke kept saying. But frankly, that's a ridiculous idea. Everyone knows, the point of an interview is not to demonstrate who you are, but to pretend to be whatever sort of person they want for the job. That's why they call it “interview technique.”

  My interview outfit consists of a beautiful black suit I got at Whistles, with quite a short skirt and discreet red stitching. I've teamed it with high-heeled court shoes and some very sheer, very expensive tights. (Or “hose” as I must now start calling them. But honestly. It sounds like Shakespeare or something.) As I arrive at the restaurant where we're meeting, I see my reflection in a glass door—and I'm quite impressed. But at the same time, half of me wants to run away, give up on the idea, and buy myself a nice pair of shoes to commiserate.

  I can't, though. I have to go through with this. The reason my stomach feels so hollow and my hands feel so damp is that this really matters to me. I can't tell myself I don't care and it's not important, like I do about most things. Because this really does matter. If I don't manage to get a job in New York, then I won't be able to live here. If I screw this interview up, and word gets around that I'm hopeless—then it's all over. Oh God. Oh God . . .

  OK, calm down, I tell myself firmly. I can do this. I can do it. And afterward, I'm going to reward myself with a little treat. The Daily Candy Web site e-mailed me this morning, and apparently this huge makeup emporium in SoHo called Sephora is running a special promotion today, until four. Every customer gets a goody bag—and if you spend fifty dollars, you get a free special engraved beauty box! I mean, how cool would that be?

  About two seconds after the e-mail arrived, I got one from Jodie, the girl I met at the sample sale. I'd been telling her I was a bit nervous about meeting Luke's mother—and she said I should get a makeover for the occasion and Sephora was definitely the place, did I want to meet up? So that will be fun, at least . . .

  There, you see, I feel better already, just thinking about it. OK, go girl. Go get 'em.

  I force myself to push open the door, and suddenly I'm in a very smart restaurant, all black lacquer and white linen and colored fish swimming in tanks.

  “Good afternoon,” says a maître
d' dressed entirely in black.

  “Hello,” I say. “I'm here to meet—”

  Shit, I've completely forgotten the names of the people I'm meeting.

  Oh, great start, Becky. This is really professional.

  “Could you just . . . hang on?” I say, and turn away, flushing red. I scrabble in my bag for the piece of paper—and here we are. Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland.

  Kent? Is that really a name?

  “It's Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say to the maître d', hastily shoving the paper back in my bag, “meeting Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland of HLBC.”

  He scans the list, then gives a frosty smile. “Ah yes. They're already here.”

  Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the table—and there they are. A blond woman in a beige trouser suit and a chiseled-looking man in an equally immaculate black suit and sage-green tie. I fight the urge to run away, and advance with a confident smile, holding out my hand. They both look up at me, and for a moment neither says anything—and I feel a horrible conviction that I've already broken some vital rule of etiquette. I mean, you do shake hands in America, don't you? Are you supposed to kiss? Or bow?

  But thankfully the blond woman is getting up and clasping my hand warmly.

  “Becky!” she says. “So thrilled to meet you. I'm Kent Garland.”

  “Judd Westbrook,” says the man, gazing at me with deep-set eyes. “We're very excited to meet you.”

  “Me too!” I say. “And thank you so much for your lovely flowers!”

  “Not at all,” says Judd, and ushers me into a chair. “It's a delight.”

  “An enormous pleasure,” says Kent.

  There's an expectant silence.

  “Well, it's a . . . a fantastic pleasure for me, too,” I say hastily. “Absolutely . . . phenomenal.”

  So far so good. If we just keep telling each other what a pleasure this is, I should do OK. Carefully I place my bag on the floor, along with my copies of the FT and the Wall Street Journal. I thought about the South China Morning Post, too, but decided that might be a bit much.