Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

  “Would you like a drink?” says a waiter, appearing at my side.

  “Oh yes!” I say, and glance nervously around at the table to see what everyone else is having. Kent and Judd have both got tumblers full of what looks like G&T, so I'd better follow suit. “A gin and tonic, please.”

  To be honest, I think I need it, just to relax. As I open my menu, both Judd and Kent are gazing at me with an alert interest, as though they think I might suddenly burst into blossom or something.

  “We've seen your tapes,” says Kent, leaning forward. “And we're very impressed.”

  “Really?” I say—and then realize I shouldn't sound quite so astonished. “Really,” I repeat, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yes, well, I'm proud of the show, obviously . . .”

  “As you know, Rebecca, we produce a show called Consumer Today,” says Kent. “We don't have a personal finance segment at present, but we'd love to bring in the kind of advisory slot you're doing in Britain.” She glances at Judd, who nods in agreement.

  “It's obvious you have a passion for personal finance,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well—”

  “It shines through your work,” he asserts firmly. “As does the pincerlike grip you have on your subject.”

  Pincerlike grip?

  “You know, you're pretty unique, Rebecca,” Kent is saying. “A young, approachable, charming girl, with such a high level of expertise and conviction in what you're saying . . .”

  “You're an inspiration for the financially challenged everywhere,” agrees Judd.

  “What we admire the most is the patience you show these people.”

  “The empathy you have with them . . .”

  “. . . that faux-simplistic style of yours!” says Kent, and looks at me intently. “How do you keep that up?”

  “Erm . . . you know! It just . . . comes, I suppose . . .” The waiter puts a drink in front of me and I grab it thankfully. “Well, cheers, everyone!” I say, lifting my glass.

  “Cheers!” says Kent. “Are you ready to order, Rebecca?”

  “Absolutely!” I reply, quickly scanning the menu. “The ahm . . . sea bass, please, and a green salad.” I look at the others. “And shall we share some garlic bread?”

  “I'm wheat-free,” says Judd politely.

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Well . . . Kent?”

  “I don't eat carbohydrates,” she says pleasantly. “But you go ahead. I'm sure it's delicious!”

  “No, it's OK,” I say hastily. “I'll just have the sea bass.”

  God, how could I be so stupid? Of course Manhattanites don't eat garlic bread.

  “And to drink?” says the waiter.

  “Erm . . .” I look around the table. “I don't know. A sauvignon blanc, maybe? What does everyone else want?”

  “Sounds good,” says Kent with a friendly smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Just some more Pellegrino for me,” she adds, and gestures to her tumbler.

  “And me,” says Judd.

  Pellegrino? They're on Pellegrino?

  “I'll just have water too!” I say quickly. “I don't need wine! It was just an idea. You know—”

  “No!” says Kent. “You must have whatever you like!” She smiles at the waiter. “A bottle of the sauvignon blanc, please, for our guest.”

  “Honestly—” I say, flushing red.

  “Rebecca,” says Kent, lifting a hand with a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  Oh great. Now she thinks I'm a complete alcoholic. She thinks I can't survive one getting-to-know-you lunch without hitting the booze.

  Well, never mind. It's done now. And it'll be OK. I'll just drink one glass. One glass, and that's it.

  And that is honestly what I mean to do. Drink one glass and leave it at that.

  But the trouble is, every time I finish my glass, a waiter comes along and fills it up again, and somehow I find myself drinking it. Besides which, it would look rather ungrateful to order a whole bottle of wine and leave it undrunk.

  So the upshot is, by the time we've finished our food, I'm feeling quite . . . Well. I suppose one word might be drunk. Another might be pissed. But it's not a problem, because we're having a really good time, and I'm actually being really witty. Probably because I've relaxed a little. I've told them lots of funny stories about behind the scenes at Morning Coffee, and they've listened carefully and said it all sounds “quite fascinating.”

  “Of course, you British are very different from us,” says Kent thoughtfully, as I finish telling her about the time Dave the cameraman arrived so pissed he keeled over in the middle of a shot, and got Emma picking her nose. God, that was funny. In fact, I can't stop giggling, just remembering it.

  “We just love your British sense of humor,” says Judd, and stares intently at me as though expecting a joke.

  OK, quick. Think of something funny. British sense of humor. Erm . . . Fawlty Towers? Ab Fab?

  “Don't mention the war!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Sweetie darling.” I give a snort of laughter, and Judd and Kent exchange puzzled looks.

  Just then, the coffee arrives. At least, I'm having coffee, Kent's having English breakfast tea, and Judd's having some weird herbal thing which he gave to the waiter to make.

  “I adore tea,” says Kent, giving me a smile. “So calming. Now, Rebecca. In England, the custom is that you turn the pot three times clockwise to keep away the devil. Is that right? Or is it counterclockwise?”

  Turn the pot? I've never heard of turning the bloody pot.

  “Erm . . . let me remember.”

  I screw my face up thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time I drank tea from a teapot. But the only image that comes to me is of Suze dunking a teabag in a mug while she tears a KitKat open with her teeth.

  “I think it's counterclockwise,” I say at last. “Because of the old saying, ‘The devil he creeps around the clock . . . but never backward he will go.' ”

  What the hell am I talking about? Why have I suddenly put on a Scottish accent?

  “Fascinating!” says Kent, taking a sip of tea. “I adore all these quaint old British customs. Do you know any others?”

  “Absolutely!” I say brightly. “I know loads!”

  Stop it, Becky. Just stop now.

  “Like, we have a very old custom of . . . of . . . ‘turning the tea cake.' ”

  “Really?” says Kent. “I've never heard of that one.”

  “Oh yes,” I say confidently. “What happens is, you take your tea cake . . .” I grab a bread roll from a passing waiter. “And you . . . rotate it above your head like so . . . and you . . . you say a little rhyme . . .”

  Crumbs are starting to fall on my head, and I can't think of anything to rhyme with tea cake, so I put my bread roll down and take a sip of coffee. “They do it in Cornwall,” I add.

  “Really?” says Judd with interest. “My grandmother comes from Cornwall. I'll have to ask her about it!”

  “Only in some bits of Cornwall,” I explain. “Just in the pointy bits.”

  Judd and Kent give each other puzzled looks—then both burst into laughter.

  “Your British sense of humor!” says Kent. “It's so refreshing.”

  For a moment I'm not quite sure how to react—then I start laughing too. God, this is great. We're getting on like a house on fire! Then Kent's face lights up.

  “Now, Rebecca, I was meaning to say. I have rather an exciting opportunity for you. I don't know what your plans were for this afternoon. But I have a rather unique ticket . . . to . . .”

  She pauses for effect, smiling widely, and I stare at her in sudden excitement. A Gucci invitation sample sale! It has to be!

  “. . . the Association of Financiers Annual Conference!” she finishes proudly.

  For a few moments I can't speak.

  “Really?” I say at last, my voice slightly more high-pitched than usual. “You're . . . you're joking!”

  How on earth am I going to get out of this
one?

  “I know!” says Kent delightedly. “I thought you'd be pleased. So if you're not doing anything else this afternoon . . .”

  I am doing something! I want to wail. I'm going to Sephora to get made over!

  “There are some very high-profile speakers,” puts in Judd. “Bert Frankel, for one.”

  “Really?” I say. “Bert Frankel!”

  I've never heard of bloody Bert Frankel.

  “So . . . I have the pass right here . . .” says Kent, reaching for her bag.

  Quick. I have to say something or I'll find myself spending a precious afternoon in New York sitting in some dreary conference hall.

  “What a shame!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Because actually . . .”

  I can't tell them I have to go and try on lipstick.

  “Actually . . . I was planning to visit the Guggenheim this afternoon.”

  Phew. No one can argue with culture.

  “Really?” says Kent, looking disappointed. “Couldn't it wait until another day?”

  “I'm afraid not,” I say. “There's a particular exhibit I've been absolutely longing to see since . . . since I was a child of six.”

  “Really?” says Kent, eyes wide.

  “Yes.” I lean forward earnestly. “Ever since I saw a photograph of it in my granny's art book, it's been my ambition since childhood to come to New York City and see this piece of art. And now that I'm here . . . I just can't wait any longer. I hope you understand . . .”

  “Of course!” says Kent. “Of course we do! What an inspiring story!” She exchanges impressed looks with Judd, and I smile modestly back. “So—which piece of art is it?”

  I stare at her, still smiling. OK, quick, think. The Guggenheim. Modern paintings? Sculpture?

  I'm fifty-fifty on modern paintings. If only I could phone a friend.

  “Actually . . . I'd rather not say,” I say at last. “I consider artistic preference a very . . . private matter.”

  “Oh,” says Kent, looking a little taken aback. “Well, of course, I didn't mean to intrude in any way—”

  “Kent,” says Judd, glancing at his watch again. “We really have to—”

  “You're right,” says Kent. She takes another sip of tea, and stands up. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, we have a meeting at two thirty. But it's been such a pleasure.”

  “Of course!” I say. “No problem!”

  I struggle to my feet and follow them out of the restaurant. As I pass the wine bucket I realize with a slight lurch that I've more or less drunk the whole bottle. How embarrassing. But I don't think anybody noticed.

  We arrive outside the restaurant, and Judd has already hailed a taxi for me.

  “Great to meet you, Rebecca,” he says. “We'll report back to our vice-president of production, and we'll . . . be in touch! Enjoy the Guggenheim.”

  “Absolutely!” I say, shaking hands with each of them. “I will. And thank you so much!”

  I get into the taxi and slam the door behind me.

  “Hi,” I say to the taxi driver, watching as Judd and Kent walk away. “I'd like to go to—”

  “The Guggenheim,” chips in the driver. “I heard.”

  “No, actually, I'd like to go to SoHo. Sephora on Broadway.”

  The driver swivels in his seat to look at me. He's huge and swarthy, and his face is creased in a frown.

  “What about the Guggenheim?”

  “Erm . . . I'll go later on.”

  “Later on?” says the driver. “You can't rush the Guggenheim. The Guggenheim is a very fine museum. Picasso. Kandinsky. You don't want to miss it.”

  “I won't miss it! Honestly, I promise. If we could just go to Sephora now? Please?”

  There's a disapproving silence from the front.

  “All right,” he says at last, and starts the engine.

  As we drive off, I sink happily into my seat. I think lunch went really well, actually. Except maybe when I told them the anecdote about Rory and the guide dog. And when I tripped over on my way to the loos. But then, that could happen to anybody. The truth is, I really am settling into New York. It's only been three days, but I'm getting the language and everything. Like, yesterday, I said “Go figure” without even thinking. And I called a skirt cute!

  We pull up at a pedestrian crossing and I'm peering interestedly out, wondering which street we're at—when suddenly I freeze in horror.

  There are Judd and Kent. Right there, in front of us. They're crossing the road, and Kent is saying something animatedly, and Judd is nodding. Oh God. I can't let them see me heading in the wrong direction. Quick, hide.

  My heart thumping, I sink down off my seat and kind of crouch on the floor, trying to hide behind my Wall Street Journal. God, why isn't there more space in these taxis?

  “You OK back there?” says the taxi driver.

  “Fine,” I gulp. I raise my head cautiously—and thank goodness Judd and Kent have disappeared. As I scramble back up onto the seat, I bump my head on the window.

  “Hey there!” says a disembodied voice, making me jump with fright. “You be careful! Safety counts, OK? So buckle up!”

  “OK,” I say humbly. “Sorry about that. I'm really sorry. I won't do it again.”

  I fasten my seat belt with clumsy fingers, and catch the eye of the driver in the mirror.

  “It's a recorded announcement,” he says scornfully. “You're talking to a tape machine.”

  I knew that.

  We arrive at Sephora on Broadway, and I thrust wodges of dollars at the driver. As I get out of the cab, he looks closely at me.

  “Have you been drinking, lady?”

  “No,” I say indignantly. “I mean . . . yes. But it was just a bit of wine at lunch . . .”

  The taxi driver shakes his head and drives off, and I head unsteadily into Sephora. To be honest, I am feeling a little giddy. I push open the door and . . . wow. Spotlights are dancing about the bright interior, landing on shiny black counters; on the deep-red carpet underfoot; on the glass packaging of a thousand nail polishes. There's music pounding, and girls milling everywhere, and trendy guys in black polo necks and headsets handing out goody bags. As I turn dazedly around, I've never seen so much makeup in my life. Rows and rows of lipsticks. Rows and rows of eye shadows. In all the colors of the rainbow. And oh look, there are little chairs where you can sit and try it all on, with personal mirrors. This place is . . . I mean, it's heaven.

  “Hi, Becky, you made it!” I look up to see Jodie waving across a display of hairbrushes. She's wearing a stripy red-and-white jersey dress today, and as she gets nearer I see that her nails have been revarnished stripy red-and-white to match. “Ready for your makeover?”

  She ushers me to one of the little chairs and I get into it, feeling a pleasant anticipation. A girl in black comes over with a friendly smile and introduces herself as Mona, my makeup specialist for today.

  “Had you thought what look you were after?” she says as she switches on a spotlight and guides it toward my face.

  “Well, it's for lunch with my boyfriend's mother,” I explain. “I want to look kind of . . . groomed.”

  “Polished but subtle?”

  “Exactly!”

  “I have you,” says Mona, nodding. “Taupes and beiges. The hardest look to pull off.”

  “Taupe?” says Jodie, wrinkling her brow. “Did anyone ever look good in taupe?”

  “And maybe a soft color on the lips,” says Mona, ignoring Jodie. “Let me start with a light base . . .”

  She reaches for a cosmetic sponge and smooths color gently over my face. As she starts shading my eyes I see Jodie standing back, a critical look on her face.

  “For this elegant look, less is more,” says Mona.

  “Right,” I say, nodding knowledgeably. “Absolutely.”

  “I'll just fetch a mascara . . .”

  She disappears toward the front of the shop and I close my eyes. If I'm honest, my head's still spinning from all that wine, and I'm finding it qui
te hard to balance on this tiny chair.

  Suddenly I feel a coldness on my cheek, and look up. Jodie is standing in front of me, dipping her fingers into a small pot.

  “What are you doing?” I say feebly.

  “Jazzing you up a bit!” she says, and dabs my other cheek. “All this neutral crap! Like that's what you wanted from a makeover.”

  “Well—”

  “I know you're too polite to complain. You Brits really need to get some attitude.” She stands back and gives a satisfied nod. “Now, did you ever wear false eyelashes? Because they have a great range here.”

  “Jodie, I'm not sure . . .”

  “Hey!” We both look up to see Mona approaching, an affronted expression on her face. “What the hell is going on? What's happened to her face?”

  “She looked boring,” says Jodie defiantly.

  “She looked classic!” Mona sticks her hands on her hips. “Well, you've ruined it now.”

  “What have I got on my face?” I demand, and pull the mirror toward me. My own face stares back. Smooth and beige, with softly shadowed eyes, discreetly colored lips . . . and silver sparkles on my cheeks.

  “Looks great, doesn't it?” says Jodie unapologetically. “Much better with the glitter.”

  I glance at Mona's annoyed face and suddenly feel a bit guilty.

  “Actually, Mona,” I say quickly, “I'd really like to buy some of the products you used. In fact . . . all of them. Would that be possible?”

  “Oh,” says Mona, unbending a little. “Well—yes, of course. They are from a rather expensive line . . .”

  “That doesn't matter!” I turn hastily to Jodie. “And . . . I'll buy the glitter too. I'll buy it all!”

  Ten minutes later I find myself outside Sephora, clutching two carrier bags full of makeup, a whole set of new cosmetic brushes, a silver shower cap, and something called “buffing paste,” which I threw in at the last moment. I'm not sure quite what it is—but the jar is absolutely gorgeous!

  “OK,” I say, looking dazedly around the busy street in front of me. “Where next?”

  “Babe, I have to go,” says Jodie, looking up from her pager. “I've already had a five-hour lunch break. But if you want the true SoHo experience, there's Dean and Deluca right in front of you . . .” She swivels me by the shoulders until I'm facing across the street. “. . . and just along is Scoop, which is the place to pick up the most expensive T-shirt in the universe . . .”