And I thought I had as much variety in my shopping life as anybody. I thought I had all the areas covered. To be honest, I was quite blasé about it. But look what I've been missing out on. all this time. Look what I've been denying myself. I feel quite shaky as I realize the opportunities I've just been throwing away over the years. Suitcases, weekend bags, monogrammed hat boxes . . . With weak legs, I wander into a corner and sit down on a carpeted pedestal, next to a red leather vanity case.
How can I have overlooked luggage for so long? How can I have just blithely led my life, ignoring an entire retail sector?
'So – what do you think?' says Luke, coming up to me. 'Anything worth buying?'
And now, of course, I feel like a fraud. Why couldn't he have wanted to buy a really good white shirt, or a cashmere scarf? Or even hand cream? I would have been able to advise him authoritatively and even quote prices. But luggage. I'm a beginner at luggage.
'Well,' I say, playing for time. 'It depends. They all look great.'
'They do, don't they?' He follows my gaze around the department. 'But which one would you choose? If you had to buy one of these suitcases, which one would it be?'
It's no good. I can't bluff.
'To be honest,' I say, 'this isn't really my field.'
'What isn't?' he says, sounding incredulous. 'Shopping?'
'Luggage,' I explain. 'It's not an area I've put a lot of time into. I should have done, I know, but . . .'
'Well . . . never mind,' says Luke, his mouth twisting into a smile. 'As a non-expert. Which one would you choose?'
Well, that's different.
'Hmm,' I say, and get to my feet in a businesslike manner. 'Well, let's have a closer look.'
God, we have fun. We line up eight suitcases in a row, and give them marks for looks, heaviness, quality of lining, number of interior pockets and efficiency of wheels. (I test this by striding the length of the department, pulling the case behind me. By this time, the assistant has just given up and left us to it.) Then we look to see if they have a matching holdall and give that marks, too.
The prices don't seem to matter to Luke. Which is a bloody good thing, because they're absolutely astronomical – and at first sight, so scary they make me want to run away. But it's amazing how quickly £1,000 can start to seem like a very reasonable sum for a suitcase – especially since the Louis Vuitton mono-grammed trunk costs about ten times as much. In fact, after a while I find myself thinking quite seriously that I too should really invest in a quality suitcase, instead of my battered old canvas bag.
But today is Luke's shopping trip, not mine. And strangely enough, it's almost more fun choosing for someone else than for yourself. In the end, we narrow it down to a dark green leather case, which has wonderful trundly wheels, or the palest beige calfskin case, which is a bit heavier, but has a stunning silk lining and is basically so beautiful I can't stop staring at it. It has a matching holdall and vanity case – and they're just as beautiful. God, if it were me, I'd . . .
But then, it's not up to me, is it? It's Luke who's buying the case. He's the one who's got to choose. We sit down on the floor, side by side, and look at them.
'The green one would be more practical,' says Luke eventually.
'Mmm,' I say noncommittally. 'I suppose it would.'
'It's lighter – and the wheels are better.'
'Mmm.'
'And that pale calfskin would probably scuff in a matter of minutes. Green's a more sensible colour.'
'Mmm,' I say, trying to sound as though I agree with him.
He gives me a quizzical look and says, 'Right. Well, I think we've made our choice, don't you?' And, still sitting on the floor, he calls over the assistant.
'Yes sir?' says the assistant, and Luke nods at him.
'I'd like to buy one of these pale beige suitcases, please.'
'Oh!' I say, and I can't stop a smile of delight spreading over my face. 'You're getting the one I liked best!'
'Rule of life,' says Luke, getting to his feet and brushing down his trousers. 'If you bother to ask someone's advice, then bother to listen to it.'
'But I didn't say which one . . .'
'You didn't have to,' says Luke, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. 'Your "Mmms" gave it all away.'
His hand is surprisingly strong round mine, and as he pulls me up, I feel a slight swooping in my stomach. He smells nice, too. Some expensive aftershave which I don't recognize. For a moment, neither of us says anything.
'Right,' says Luke at last. 'Well, I'd better pay for it, I suppose.'
'Yes,' I say, feeling ridiculously nervous. 'Yes, I suppose you had.'
He walks off to the checkout and starts talking to the assistant, and I perch next to a display of leather suit-carriers, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. I mean, the shopping's over now. What happens next?
Well, we'll just say goodbye politely, won't we? Luke'll probably have to get back to the office. He can't hang around shopping all day. And if he asks me what I'm doing next, I tell myself, I really will say I'm busy. I'll pretend I've got some important meeting arranged or something.
'All sorted out,' he says, coming back. 'Rebecca, I'm incredibly grateful to you for your help.'
'Great!' I say brightly. 'Well, I must be on my—'
'So I was wondering,' says Luke, before I can continue. 'Would you like some lunch?'
This is just turning into my perfect day. Shopping at Harrods – and lunch at Harvey Nichols. I mean, what could be better than that? We go straight up to the fifth-floor restaurant, and Luke orders a bottle of chilled white wine, and raises his glass in a toast.
'To luggage,' he says, and smiles.
'Luggage,' I reply happily, and take a sip. It's just about the most delicious wine I've ever tasted. Luke picks up his menu and starts to read it, and I pick mine up too – but to be honest, I'm not reading a word. I'm just sitting in a happy glow, like the Ready Brek kid. I'm looking around with relish at all the smart women coming in to have lunch here, and making notes of their outfits and wondering where that girl over there got her pink boots from. And now, for some reason, I'm thinking about that nice card Luke sent me. And I'm wondering whether it was just being friendly – or . . . or whether it was something else.
At this thought, my stomach flips so hard I almost feel sick, and very quickly I take another sip of wine. Well, a gulp, really. Then I put down my glass, count to five and say casually,
'Thanks for your card, by the way.'
'What?' he says, looking up. 'Oh, you're welcome.' He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of wine. 'It was nice to bump into you, that night.'
'It's a great place,' I say. 'Great for table-hopping.'
As soon as I've said this, I feel myself blush. But Luke just smiles, and says, 'Indeed.' Then he puts down his glass and says, 'Do you know what you want?'
'Ahm . . .' I say, glancing hurriedly at the menu. 'I think I'll just have . . . erm . . . fishcakes. And rocket salad.'
Damn, I've just spotted squid. I should have had that. Oh well, too late now.
'Good choice,' says Luke, smiling at me. 'And thanks again for coming along today. It's always good to have a second opinion.'
'No problem,' I say lightly, and take a sip of wine. 'Hope you enjoy the case.'
'Oh, it's not for me,' he says after a pause. 'It's for Sacha.'
'Oh right,' I say pleasantly. 'Who's Sacha? Your sister?'
'My girlfriend,' says Luke, and turns away to beckon to a waiter.
And I stare at him, unable to move.
His girlfriend. I've been helping him choose a suitcase for his girlfriend.
Suddenly I don't feel hungry any more. I don't want fishcakes and rocket salad. I don't even want to be here. My happy Ready Brek glow is fading away, and underneath I feel chilly and rather stupid. Luke Brandon's got a girlfriend. Of course he has. Some beautiful smart girl, called Sacha, who has manicured nails and travels everywhere with expensive cases. I'm a fool, aren't I? I shou
ld have known there'd be a Sacha somewhere on the scene. I mean, it's obvious.
Except . . . Except it's not that obvious. In fact, it's not obvious at all. Luke hasn't mentioned his girlfriend all morning. Why hasn't he? Why didn't he just say the suitcase was for her in the first place? Why did he let me sit on the floor beside him in Harrods and laugh as I marched up and down, testing the wheels? I wouldn't have behaved anything like that if I'd known we were buying a case for his girlfriend. And he must have known that. He must have known.
A cold feeling begins to creep over me. This is all wrong.
'All right?' says Luke, turning back to me.
'No,' I hear myself saying. 'No, it's not. You didn't tell me that case was for your girlfriend. You didn't even tell me you had a girlfriend.'
Oh God. I've done it now. I've been completely uncool. But somehow I don't care.
'I see,' says Luke after a pause. He picks up a piece of bread and begins to break it up with his fingers, then looks up. 'Sacha and I have been together a while now,' he says kindly. 'I'm sorry if I gave . . . any other impression.'
He's patronizing me. I can't bear it.
'That's not the point,' I say, feeling my cheeks flushing beetroot red. 'It's just . . . it's all wrong.'
'Wrong?' he says, looking amused.
'You should have told me we were choosing a case for your girlfriend,' I say doggedly, staring down at the table. 'It would have made things . . . different.'
There's silence and I raise my eyes, to see Luke looking at me as though I'm mad.
'Rebecca,' he says, 'you're getting this all out of proportion. I wanted your opinion on suitcases. End of story.'
'And are you going to tell your girlfriend you asked my advice?'
'Of course I am!' says Luke, and gives a little laugh. 'I expect she'll be rather amused.'
I stare at him in silence, feeling mortification creep over me. My throat's tight, and there's a pain growing in my chest. Amused. Sacha will be amused when she hears about me.
Well, of course she will. Who wouldn't be amused by hearing about the girl who spent her entire morning marching up and down Harrods, testing out suitcases for another woman? The girl who got completely the wrong end of the stick. The girl who was so stupid, she thought Luke Brandon might actually like her.
I swallow hard, feeling sick with humiliation. For the first time, I'm realizing how Luke Brandon sees me. How they all see me. I'm just the comedy turn, aren't I? I'm the scatty girl who gets things wrong and makes people laugh. The girl who didn't know SBG and Rutland Bank had merged. The girl no-one would ever think of taking seriously. Luke didn't bother telling me we were choosing a suitcase for his girlfriend because I don't matter. He's only buying me lunch because he hasn't got anything else to do – and probably because he thinks I might do something entertaining like drop my fork, which he can laugh about when he gets back to the office.
'I'm sorry,' I say in a wobbly voice, and stand up. 'I haven't got time for lunch after all.'
'Rebecca, don't be silly!' says Luke. 'Look, I'm sorry you didn't know about my girlfriend.' He raises his eyebrows quizzically, and I want to hit him. 'But we can still be friends, can't we?'
'No,' I say stiffly, aware that my voice is thick and my eyes smarting. 'No, we can't. Friends treat each other with respect. But you don't respect me, do you, Luke? You just think I'm a joke. A nothing. Well . . .' I swallow hard. 'Well, I'm not.'
And before he can say anything else I turn, and quickly make my way out of the restaurant, half blinded by disappointed tears.
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Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
20 March 2000
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Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
20 March 2000
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Twelve
As I arrive home that afternoon, I feel weary and miserable. Suddenly, triple-A rated jobs in banking and Harrods with Luke Brandon seem miles away. Real life isn't swanning round Knightsbridge in a taxi, choosing £1,000 suitcases, is it? This is real life. Home to a tiny flat which still smells of curry, and a pile of nasty letters from the bank, and no idea what to do about them.
I put my key in the lock, and as I open the door, I hear Suze cry, 'Bex? Is that you?'
'Yes!' I say, trying to sound cheerful. 'Where are you?'
'Here,' she says, appearing at the door of my bedroom. Her face is all pink, and there's a shine in her eyes. 'Guess what! I've got a surprise for you!'
'What is it?' I say, putting down my briefcase. To be honest, I'm not in the mood for one of Suze's surprises. She'll just have moved my bed to a different place, or something. And all I want is to sit down and have a cup of tea and something to eat. I never did get any lunch.
'Come and see. No . . . no, shut your eyes, first. I'll lead you.'
'OK,' I say reluctantly. I close my eyes and allow her to take my hand. We start to walk along the corridor – and of course, as we near my bedroom door, I start feeling a little tingle of anticipation in spite of myself. I always fall for things like this.
'Dadaaa! You can look now!'
I open my eyes and look dazedly around my room, wondering what mad thing Suze has done now. At least she hasn't painted the walls or touched the curtains, and my computer's safely switched off. So what on earth can she have . . .
And then I see them. On my bed. Piles and piles of upholstered frames. All made up perfectly, with no wonky corners, and the braid glued neatly in place. I can't quite believe my eyes. There must be at least . . .
'I've done a hundred,' says Suze behind me. 'And I'm going to do the rest tomorrow! Aren't they fab?' I turn and stare incredulously at her.
'You . . . you did all these?'
'Yes!' she says proudly. 'It was easy, once I got into a rhythm. I did it in front of Morning Coffee. Oh, I wish you'd seen it. They had such a good phone-in, about men who dress up in women's clothes! There was this one guy—'
'Wait,' I say, trying to get my head round this. 'Wait. Suze, I don't understand. This must have taken you ages.' My eye runs disbelievingly over the pile of frames again. 'Why . . . why on earth did you—'
'Well, you weren't getting very far with them, were you?' says Suze kindly. 'I just thou
ght I'd give you a helping hand.'
'A helping hand?' I echo weakly.
'I'll do the rest tomorrow, and then I'll ring up the delivery people,' says Suze. 'You know, it's a very good system. You don't have to post them, or anything. They just come and pick them up! And then they'll send you a cheque. It should come to about £284. Pretty good, huh?'
'Hang on.' I turn round. 'What do you mean, they'll send me a cheque?' Suze looks at me as though I'm stupid.
'Well, Bex, they are your frames.'
'But you made them! Suze, you should get the money!'
'But I did them for you!' says Suze, and stares at me. 'I did them so you could make your three hundred quid!'
I stare at her silently, feeling a sudden thickness in my throat. Suze made all these frames for me. Slowly I sit down on the bed, pick up one of the frames and run my finger along the fabric. It's absolutely perfect. You could sell it in Liberty's.
'Suze, it's your money. Not mine,' I say eventually. 'It's your project, now.'
'Well, that's where you're wrong,' says Suze, and a triumphant look spreads over her face. 'I've got my own project.'
She comes over to the bed, reaches behind the pile of made-up frames, and pulls something out. It's a photo frame – but it's nothing like a Fine Frame. It's upholstered in silver furry fabric, and the word ANGEL is appliqued in pink across the top, and there are little silver pom-poms at the corners. It's the coolest, kitschest frame I've ever seen.
'Do you like it?' she says, a bit nervously.
'I love it!' I say, grabbing it from her hands and looking more closely at it. 'Where did you get it?'
'I didn't get it anywhere,' she says. 'I made it.'