Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 83
“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?”
“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 jacket2. Knee-length Barneys skirt3. Calvin Klein underwear4. Pair of new tights and…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.
Thousands of dollars.
Although, for a designer like Vera Wang, that price is actually quite…
Well, it’s really very…
I feel slightly sick. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost. The point is, I’ll be able to wear it for years. Yes! Years and years. And I need designer clothes if I’m going to be a famous television star. I mean, I’ll have important events to go to — and I can’t just turn up in M&S, can I? Exactly.
And I’ve got a £10,000 credit card limit. That’s the real point. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to me if they didn’t think I could afford it.
Suddenly I hear a sound at the door, and quickly rise to my feet. Heart thumping, I go to the wardrobe I’ve been stashing all my shopping in, open the door, and quickly shove my Barneys bags inside — then close the door and turn round with a smile, just as Luke enters the room, talking on his mobile.
“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?”
“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 jacket2. Knee-length Barneys skirt3. Calvin Klein underwear4. Pair of new tights and…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.
Thousands of dollars.
Although, for a designer like Vera Wang, that price is actually quite…
Well, it’s really very…
I feel slightly sick. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost. The point is, I’ll be able to wear it for years. Yes! Years and years. And I need designer clothes if I’m going to be a famous television star. I mean, I’ll have important events to go to — and I can’t just turn up in M&S, can I? Exactly.
And I’ve got a £10,000 credit card limit. That’s the real point. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to me if they didn’t think I could afford it.
Suddenly I hear a sound at the door, and quickly rise to my feet. Heart thumping, I go to the wardrobe I’ve been stashing all my shopping in, open the door, and quickly shove my Barneys bags inside — then close the door and turn round with a smile, just as Luke enters the room, talking on his mobile.
