I swallow, take a couple of steps forward, then push open the door of the tiny shop. The door pings, and the nice blond girl who works there looks up. I don’t know her name but I’ve always liked her. Unlike some snotty cows in clothes shops, she doesn’t mind if you stand for ages staring at clothes you really can’t afford to buy. Usually what happens is, I spend half an hour lusting after scarves in Denny and George, then go off to Accessorize and buy something to cheer myself up. I’ve got a whole drawerful of Denny and George substitutes.
“Hi,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You’re. . you’re having a sale.”
“Yes.” The blond girl smiles. “Bit unusual for us.”
My eyes sweep the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green “50 percent off” signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the distinctive “Denny and George” signature. They’re everywhere. I don’t know where to start. I think I’m having a panic attack.
“You always liked this one, I think,” says the nice blond girl, taking out a shimmering gray-blue scarf from the pile in front of her.
Oh God, yes. I remember this one. It’s made of silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue and dotted with iridescent beads. As I stare at it, I can feel little invisible strings, silently tugging me toward it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The girl looks at the label. “Reduced from £340 to £120.” She comes and drapes the scarf around my neck and I gape at my reflection.
There is no question. I have to have this scarf. I have to have it. It makes my eyes look bigger, it makes my haircut look more expensive, it makes me look like a different person. I’ll be able to wear it with everything. People will refer to me as the Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.
“I’d snap it up if I were you.” The girl smiles at me. “There’s only one of these left.”
Involuntarily, I clutch at it.
“I’ll have it,” I gasp. “I’ll have it.”
As she’s laying it out on tissue paper, I take out my purse, open it up, and reach for my VISA card in one seamless, automatic action — but my fingers hit bare leather. I stop in surprise and start to rummage through all the pockets of my purse, wondering if I stuffed my card back in somewhere with a receipt or if it’s hidden underneath a business card. . And then, with a sickening thud, I remember. It’s on my desk.
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left my VISA card on my desk? What was I thinking?
The nice blond girl is putting the wrapped scarf into a dark green Denny and George box. My mouth is dry with panic. What am I going to do?
“How would you like to pay?” she says pleasantly.
My face flames red and I swallow hard.
“I’ve just realized I’ve left my credit card at the office,” I stutter.
“Oh,” says the girl, and her hands pause.
“Can you hold it for me?” The girl looks dubious.
“For how long?”
“Until tomorrow?” I say desperately. Oh God. She’s pulling a face. Doesn’t she understand?
“I’m afraid not,” she says. “We’re not supposed to reserve sale stock.”
“Just until later this afternoon, then,” I say quickly. “What time do you close?”
“Six.”
Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenaline sweeping through me. Challenge, Rebecca. I’ll go to the press conference, leave as soon as I can, then take a taxi back to the office. I’ll grab my VISA card, tell Philip I left my notebook behind, come here, and buy the scarf.
“Can you hold it until then?” I say beseechingly. “Please? Please?” The girl relents.
“OK. I’ll put it behind the counter.”
“Thanks,” I gasp. I hurry out of the shop and down the road toward Brandon Communications. Please let the press conference be short, I pray. Please don’t let the questions go on too long. Please God, please let me have that scarf.
As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours, after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one’s going to steal it from me.
There’s a sign up in the foyer saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world’s-press-on-tenterhooks big, obviously. But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.
