Ooh.
Prada Shoes. Right in front of me.
I'll just have a really quick look.
As the others all march on, I hurry up to the window and stare at a pair of deep brown pumps with cream stitching. God, those are divine. I wonder how much they are? You know, Prada is probably 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 Fifty-seventh 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 swiveling from left to right, like someone watching a tennis game. Christian Dior, Herm'es, Chanel . . . This street is just 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. Do they not have eyes in their heads?
“. . . where we're going to take in two well-known landmarks: 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. Little blue boxes, and white ribbon, and those gorgeous silver beans . . . I sidle up to the window and stare longingly at the beautiful display inside. Wow. That necklace is absolutely stunning. Oh God, and look at that watch, with all those little diamonds round the edge. 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 toward the group. “Just having a quick little look at Tiffany's.” I grin at a woman next to me, expecting her to smile back. But she looks at me blankly and pulls the hood of her baggy gray sweatshirt more tightly over her head.
“As I was saying,” Christoph says as we stride off again, “above Fourteenth Street, Manhattan was designed as a grid, so 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! There are women striding along in immaculate coats and sunglasses, yellow taxicabs honking at each other, two men are standing on a street corner, arguing in Italian . . . And 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 . . .
What is wrong with these people? Are they complete philistines?
We walk on a bit farther, 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, across the street. 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—but 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. 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 across the street toward 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. I should go into the cathedral. I should take in some culture and come back to Saks later.
But then—how is that going to help me get to know whether I want to live in New York or not? Looking around some 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 electric 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 paneling; 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.
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? All these names, jumping out at me, calling to me. Anna Sui. Calvin Klein. Kate Spade. Kiehl's. I am 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. Plus, I've been noticing that all the women in Manhattan seem to have ve
ry 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!”
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 twenty-dollar 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.
But the point is, it doesn't matter. Because this is America, and everyone knows that prices in America are really low. It's common knowledge. 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!
As I'm hovering over the DKNY display, an elderly woman wearing a gold-colored suit and carrying a Gucci tote comes up to me.
“Which one matches?” she says. “This . . . ” She holds out a tan satin bag. “. . . or this . . . ” She holds out a paler one. “It's for evening,” she adds.
“Erm . . .” I look at her suit and at the bags again—and wonder how to tell her they don't match at all. “The thing is, they're both a kind of brownish color . . . and your suit's more of a golden, yellowish . . .”
“Not the suit!” she exclaims. “The dog!”
I look at her perplexedly—then spot a tiny face poking out of the Gucci tote. Oh my God! Is that a real live dog?
“Don't hide, Muffy!” says the woman, reaching into the bag and hauling it out. And honestly, it's more like a rat than a dog—except a rat with a Gucci collar and a diamante name tag.
“You want your bag to match your . . . dog?” I say, just to be sure.
“If I can't find anything, I'll just have to have her hair tinted again.” The woman sighs. “But it's so time-consuming . . .”
“No, don't do that!” I say hastily. “I think the paler bag goes perfectly.”
“I think you're right.” She gives it a critical look, then nods. “Thank you for your help. Do you have a dog?”
“Erm . . . not on me.”
The woman stares at me suspiciously—then stuffs the dog back in the Gucci tote. She walks off, and I resume my search, wondering if I need to buy a dog in order to be a real New Yorker. Except I only like big ones. And you couldn't exactly lug a Labrador around in a Fendi clutch, could you?
Eventually I choose a beautiful Kate Spade bag in tan leather, and take it up to the counter. It costs five hundred dollars, which sounds quite a lot—but then, “a million lira” sounds like a lot too, doesn't it? And that's only about fifty pence. So this is sure to be a bargain.
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 suddenly 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.
This is a bit embarrassing.
“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.
“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. Three girls, all wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, have come into the gift wrap room—and I'm slightly intrigued by their conversation.
“. . . below wholesale . . .”
“. . . 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 percent off . . .”
“. . . sample sale . . .”
“. . . sample sale . . .”
I cannot 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 eventually 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 Garçons, 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 yeah,” 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 fa
ce 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 blue, 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 percent so he doesn't think I'm some stingy English tourist—and, heart thumping, I get out. And I have to admit, on first impression, things are not promising. I'm in a street full of rather uninspiring-looking 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 percent 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, and nod nervously at the concierge sitting at the desk.