“They are, actually,” I say, unable to maintain my calm. “In fact, they're going brilliantly! I've had all these fantastic meetings, and everybody says they want to give me a job! I just had a meeting with Greg Walters from Blue River Productions—and he said he was going to give me my own show. And yesterday, someone was talking about Hollywood!”
“That's great,” says Michael. “Really great.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks at me thoughtfully. “If I could just say a word?”
“What?”
“These TV people. You don't necessarily want to believe every single word they say.”
I look at him, a little discomfited.
“What do you mean?”
“These guys like talking big,” says Michael, slowly stirring his coffee. “It makes them feel good. And they believe everything they say at the time when they're saying it. But when it comes to the cold hard dollar . . .” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just don't want you to be disappointed.”
“I won't be disappointed!” I retort indignantly. “Greg Walters said the whole town was fighting over me!”
“I'm sure he did,” says Michael. “And I very much hope they are. All I'm saying is—”
He stops as a uniformed concierge stops by our table.
“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “I have a message for you.”
“Thanks!” I say in surprise.
I open the envelope he gives me, and pull out the sheets of paper—and it's a message from Kent Garland at HLBC.
“Well!” I say, unable to stop a smile of triumph. “It looks like HLBC wasn't just talking big. It looks like they mean business.” I give the piece of paper to Michael Ellis, wanting to add, “So there!”
“ ‘Please call Kent's assistant to arrange a screen test,' ” reads Michael aloud. “Well, looks like I'm wrong,” he says, smiling. “And I'm very glad about it.” He lifts his coffee cup toward me. “So here's to a successful screen test.”
OK. What am I going to wear tomorrow? What am I going to wear? I mean, this is the most important moment of my life, a screen test for American television. My outfit has to be sharp, flattering, photogenic, immaculate . . . I mean, I've got nothing. Nothing.
I leaf through all my clothes for the millionth time, and flop back down on the bed, exhausted. I can't believe I've come all this way without one single screen-test outfit.
Well, there's nothing for it. I've got no choice.
I pick up my bag and check that I've got my wallet—and I'm just reaching for my coat when the phone rings.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver, hoping it might be Luke.
“Bex!” comes Suze's voice, all tinny and distant.
“Suze!” I say in delight. “Hi!”
“How's it going?”
“It's going really well!” I say. “I've had loads of meetings, and everyone's being really positive! It's just brilliant!”
“Bex! That's great.”
“How about you?” I frown slightly at her voice. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Everything's fine. Except . . .” She hesitates. “I just thought you should know, a man phoned up this morning about some money you owe a shop. La Rosa, in Hampstead.”
“Really?” I pull a face. “Them again?”
“Yes. He asked me when you were going to be out of the artificial limb unit.”
“Oh,” I say after a pause. “Right. So—what did you say?”
“Bex, why did he think you were in the artificial limb unit?”
“I don't know,” I say evasively. “Maybe he heard something. Or . . . or I may possibly have written him the odd little letter . . .”
“Bex,” interrupts Suze, and her voice is quivering slightly. “You told me you'd taken care of all those bills. You promised!”
“I have taken care of them!” I reach for my hairbrush and begin to brush my hair.
“By telling them your parachute didn't open in time?” cries Suze. “I mean, honestly, Bex—”
“Look, don't stress. I'll sort it all out as soon as I come home.”
“He said he was going to have to take extreme action! He said he was very sorry, but enough allowances had been made, and—”
“They always say that,” I say soothingly. “Suze, you really don't have to worry. I'm going to earn loads over here. I'll be loaded! And I'll be able to pay everything off, and everything will be fine.”
There's silence, and I imagine Suze sitting on the floor of the sitting room, winding her hair tightly round her fingers.
“Really?” she says at last. “Is it all going well, then?”
“Yes! I've got a screen test tomorrow, and this guy wants to give me my own show, and they're even talking about Hollywood!”
“Hollywood?” breathes Suze. “That's amazing.”
“I know!” I beam at my own reflection. “Isn't it great? I'm hot! That's what the guy from Blue River Productions said.”
“So—what are you going to wear for your screen test?”
“I'm just off to Barneys,” I say happily. “Choose a new outfit!”
“Barneys?” exclaims Suze in horror. “Bex, you promised me you weren't going to go overboard! You completely promised me you were going to stick to a budget.”
“I have! I've completely stuck to it! It's all written out and everything! And anyway, this is a business expense. I'm investing in my career.”
“But—”
“Suze, you can't make money unless you spend it first. Everyone knows that! I mean, you have to spend money on your materials, don't you?”
There's a pause.
“I suppose so,” says Suze doubtfully.
“And anyway, what are credit cards for?”
“Oh Bex . . .” Suze sighs. “Actually, that's funny—that's just what the council tax girl said yesterday.”
“What council tax girl?” I frown at my reflection and reach for an eyeliner.
“The girl who came round this morning,” says Suze vaguely. “She had a clipboard. And she asked loads of questions about me, and the flat, and how much rent you paid me . . . we had a really nice chat. And I was telling her all about you being in America, and Luke . . . and your TV job . . .”
“Great,” I say, not really listening. “That sounds really good. Listen, Suze, I've got to run. But honestly, don't worry. If anyone else phones for me, just don't take the call. OK?”
“Well . . . OK,” says Suze. “And good luck tomorrow!”
“Thanks!” I say, and put down the phone. Ha-ha-ha! Off to Barneys!
Barneys. I've kind of been saving it for last, like an extraspecial chocolate. Now, as I push through the distinctive black revolving doors and walk slowly across the pale mosaic floor, looking at all the beautiful people peering into cabinets full of contemporary jewelry . . . I feel like Goldilocks picking the right chair. The music is buzzy and the atmosphere is great, and everyone looks like they're having a great time . . .
For a while I linger at a cabinet with a stunning aquamarine crystal necklace in it. I'd look just like a mermaid in that. I wonder how much it is? I'm just peering to see the price tag when an assistant approaches—and I come to with a jolt. I'm not here to buy a necklace. I'm going to buy what I need.
Feeling virtuous, I force myself to move away from the cabinet. Down to business. I study the store guide, then I take the escalator up to the top floor of the store, glimpsing tanks of fish, cages of brightly colored birds . . . and everywhere I look, gorgeous clothes.
Oh God, the clothes. They are just the most beautiful things I've ever seen! Everywhere I look, I see shapes and colors and designs I just want to grab and touch and stroke. But I can't just spend all day marveling at candy-colored knitwear and beaded mules. I have to be focused. An outfit for tomorrow, nothing else.
Right. So what exactly do I want? Maybe a jacket, so I look authoritative—but it has to be the right jacket. Not too boxy, not too stiff . . . just nice clean lines. And maybe a skirt. Or just
look at those trousers. They would look fantastic, if I had the right shoes . . .
I wander slowly round each floor, making mental notes. Then at last, when I'm sure I haven't left anything out, I start collecting all my possibilities. A Calvin Klein jacket . . . and a skirt . . .
“Excuse me?”
A voice interrupts me just as I'm reaching for a sleeveless top, and I turn in surprise. A woman in a black trouser suit is smiling at me.
“Would you like any help with your shopping today?”
“Erm . . . oh, thanks!” I say. “If you could hold these . . .” I hand her the garments I've already picked out and her smile flickers slightly.
“When I said help . . . we're running a unique promotion of our personal shopping department today. We'd like to introduce the concept to a wider audience. So if you'd like to take up the offer of an introductory session, there are some slots still available.”
“Oh right,” I say interestedly. “What exactly would that—”
“Our trained, experienced personal shoppers can help you find exactly what you're searching for,” says the woman pleasantly. “They can help you find your own style, focus on designs that suit you, and guide you through the daunting fashion maze.” She gives a tight little laugh, and I get the feeling she's said this little spiel quite a few times today.
“I see,” I say thoughtfully. “The thing is . . . I'm not sure I really need guiding. So thanks very much, but—”
“The service is complimentary,” says the woman. “Today we're also offering tea, coffee, or a glass of champagne.”
Champagne? Free champagne?
“Ooh!” I say. “Well, actually—that sounds really good. Yes, please!”
And actually, I think as I follow her to the third floor, these trained shoppers must really know their stuff—and they'll probably have a completely different eye. They'll probably show me a whole side of myself that I've never even seen before!
We arrive at a suite of large dressing rooms, and the woman shows me in with a smile.
“Your personal shopper today will be Erin,” she says. “Erin has only recently joined us, so she will be receiving some occasional guidance from a senior Barneys shopper. Will that be all right?”
“Absolutely!” I say, taking off my coat.
“Would you prefer tea, coffee, or champagne?”
“Champagne,” I say quickly. “Thanks.”
“Very well,” she says with a smile. “Ah, and here's Erin.”
I look up with interest, to see a tall thin girl coming into the dressing room. She's got straight blond hair and a small, kind of squashed-looking mouth. In fact her whole face looks as though she were once squeezed between a pair of lift doors and never quite recovered.
“Hello,” she says, and I watch her mouth in fascination as she smiles. “I'm Erin—and I'll be helping you find the outfit to best suit your needs.”
“Great!” I say. “Can't wait!”
I wonder how this Erin got her job. Not by her taste in shoes, certainly.
“So . . .” Erin looks at me thoughtfully. “What were you looking for today?”
“I have a screen test tomorrow,” I explain. “I want to look kind of . . . smart and sassy, but approachable, too. Maybe with a little witty twist somewhere.”
“A witty twist,” echoes Erin, scribbling on her pad. “Right. And were you thinking . . . a suit? A jacket?”
“Well,” I say, and launch into an exact explanation of what I'm looking for. Erin listens carefully, and I notice a dark-haired woman in tortoiseshell glasses occasionally coming to the door of our dressing room and listening too.
“Right,” says Erin, when I've finished. “Well, you certainly have some ideas there . . .” She taps her teeth for a moment. “I'm thinking . . . we have a very nice fitted jacket by Moschino, with roses on the collar . . .”
“Oh, I know the one!” I say in delight. “I was thinking of that, too!”
“Along with . . . there's a new skirt in the Barneys collection . . .”
“The black one?” I say. “With the buttons just here? Yes, I thought of that, but it's a bit short. I was thinking of the knee-length one. You know, with the ribbon round the hem . . .”
“We'll see,” says Erin, with a pleasant smile. “Let me line up some pieces for you, and we can have a look.”
As she goes off to gather up clothes, I sit down and sip my champagne. This isn't bad, actually. I mean, it's much less effort than trawling round the shop myself. I can half-hear a murmured conversation going on in the dressing room next door—and suddenly a woman's voice rises in distress, saying, “I just want to show that bastard. I just want to show him!”
“And we will show him, Marcia,” replies a calm, soothing voice, which I think belongs to the woman in tortoiseshell glasses. “We will. But not in a cherry-red pantsuit.”
“Okaaay!” Erin is back in the dressing room, wheeling in a rack of clothes. I run my eye quickly over them, and notice quite a few of the things I'd already picked out for myself. But what about the knee-length skirt? And what about that amazing aubergine trouser suit with the leather collar?
“So, here's the jacket for you to try . . . and the skirt . . .”
I take the clothes from her, and look doubtfully at the skirt. I just know it's going to be too short. But then, she's the expert, I suppose . . . Quickly I change into the skirt and jacket—then come and stand in front of the mirror, next to Erin.
“The jacket's fabulous!” I say. “And it fits me perfectly. I love the cut.”
I don't really want to say anything about the skirt. I mean, I don't want to hurt her feelings—but it looks all wrong.
“Now, let's see,” says Erin. She stands with her head on one side and squints at my reflection. “I'm thinking a skirt to the knee might look better, after all.”
“Like the one I told you about!” I say in relief. “It's on the seventh floor, right next to the—”
“Possibly,” she says, and smiles. “But I have a few other skirts in mind . . .”
“Or the Dolce & Gabbana one on the third floor,” I add. “I was looking at it earlier. Or the DKNY.”
“DKNY?” says Erin, wrinkling her brow. “I don't believe . . .”
“The assistant there told me they're new in. So nice. You should have a look at them!” I turn round and look carefully at her outfit. “You know what? The mauve DKNY would look really good with that turtleneck you're wearing. And you could team it with a pair of those new Stephane Kelian boots with the spiky heels. You know the ones?”
“I know the ones,” says Erin tightly. “The crocodile and suede ones.” I look at her in surprise.
“No, not those ones. The new range. With the stitching up the back. They're so gorgeous! In fact they'd go well with the knee-length skirt . . .”
“Thank you!” interrupts Erin sharply. “I'll bear that in mind.”
Honestly. I'm only giving her a few hints. You'd think she'd be pleased I was so interested in her shop!
Although, I have to say, she doesn't seem to know it very well.
“Hello there!” comes a voice from the door—and the woman in tortoiseshell glasses is leaning against the door frame, looking at me interestedly. “Everything all right?”
“Great, thanks!” I say, beaming at her.
“So,” says the woman, looking at Erin. “You're going to try the knee-length skirt for our customer. Is that right?”
“Yes,” says Erin, and gives a rather forced smile. “I'll just go get it.”
As she disappears, I can't resist sidling over to the rack of clothes, just to see what else she brought. The woman in glasses watches me for a moment, then comes in and holds out her hand.
“Christina Rowan,” she said. “I head up the personal shopping department.”
“Well, hello!” I say, looking at a pale blue Jill Stuart shirt. “I'm Becky Bloomwood.”
“And you're from England, I guess, by your accent?”
&nb
sp; “London, but I'm going to move to New York!”
“Are you, indeed.” Christina Rowan gives me a friendly smile. “Tell me, what do you do, Becky? Do you work in fashion?”
“Oh no. I'm in finance.”
“Finance! Really.” She raises her eyebrows.
“I give financial advice on the telly. You know, pensions and stuff . . .” I reach for a pair of soft cashmere trousers. “Aren't these beautiful? Much better than the Ralph Lauren ones. And they're cheaper.”
“They're great, aren't they?” She gives me a quizzical look. “Well, it's nice to have such an enthusiastic customer.” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a business card. “Do come back and visit us when you're here again.”
“I will!” I beam at her. “And thanks very much!”
It's four o'clock by the time I finally leave Barneys. I hail a cab and travel back to the Four Seasons. As I push open the door to our room and look at my reflection in the silent dressing table mirror, I'm still on a kind of glittery high, almost a hysterical excitement at what I've just done. What I've just bought.
I know I went out just planning to buy a single outfit for my screen test. But I ended up . . . Well, I suppose I just got a bit . . . a bit carried away. So my final list of purchases goes like this:
1. Moschino jacket
2. Knee-length Barneys skirt
3. Calvin Klein underwear
4. Pair of new tightsand . . .
5. Vera Wang cocktail dress.
Just . . . before you say anything, I know I wasn't supposed to be buying a cocktail dress. I know that when Erin said, “Are you interested in evening wear?” I should simply have said no.
But oh God. Oh God. That Vera Wang dress. Inky purple, with a low back and glittering straps. It just looked so completely movie-star perfect. Everyone crowded round to see me in it—and when I drew back the curtain, they all gasped.
And I just stared at myself, mesmerized. Entranced by what I could look like, by the person I could be. There was no question. I had to have it. I had to. As I signed the credit card slip . . . I wasn't me anymore. I was Grace Kelly. I was Gwyneth Paltrow. I was a glittering somebody else, who can casually sign a credit card slip for thousands of dollars while smiling and laughing at the assistant, as though this were a nothing-purchase.