He looks at my suitcase and back up to my face — and I stare back in resolute silence.
“I understand,” he says at last. “It’s none of my business.”
He looks so defeated, I feel a sudden stab of pain in my chest. I want to tell him — but I just can’t. I can’t risk talking about it, listening to my own arguments waver, wondering whether I’ve made the right choice. I can’t risk changing my mind.
“Luke, I’ve got to go,” I say, my throat tight. “And… and you’ve got to get back to your meeting.”
“Yes,” says Luke after a long pause. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll go. I’ll go now.” He stands up and reaches into his pocket. “Just… one last thing. You don’t want to forget this.”
Very slowly, he pulls out a long, pale blue, silk and velvet scarf, scattered with iridescent beads.
My scarf. My Denny and George scarf.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“How did you—” I swallow. “The bidder on the phone was you? But… but you withdrew. The other bidder got the—” I tail off and stare at him in confusion.
“Both the bidders were me.”
He ties the scarf gently round my neck, looks at me for a few seconds, then kisses me on the forehead. Then he turns round and walks away, into the airport crowds.
Seventeen
Two Months Later
OK. SO IT’S TWO PRESENTATIONS, one to Saatchis, one to Global Bank. One awards lunch with McKinseys, and dinner with Merrill Lynch.”
“That’s it. It’s a lot. I know.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say reassuringly. “It’ll be fine.”
I scribble something in my notebook and stare at it thinking hard. This is the moment of my new job I love the most. The initial challenge. Here’s the puzzle — find the solution. For a few moments I sit without saying anything, doodling endless small five-pointed stars and letting my mind work it out, while Lalla watches me anxiously.
“OK,” I say at last. “I have it. Your Helmut Lang pantsuit for the meetings, your Jil Sander dress for the lunch — and we’ll find you something new for the dinner.” I squint at her. “Maybe something in a deep green.”
“I can’t wear green,” says Lalla.
“You can wear green,” I say firmly. “You look great in green.”
“Becky,” says Erin, putting her head round my door. “Sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Farlow is on the phone. She loves the jackets you sent over — but is there something lighter she can wear for this evening?”
“OK,” I say. “I’ll call her back.” I look at Lalla. “So, let’s find you an evening dress.”
“What am I going to wear with my pantsuit?”
“A shirt,” I say. “Or a cashmere tee. The gray one.”
“The gray one,” repeats Lalla carefully, as though I’m speaking in Arabic.
“You bought it three weeks ago? Armani? Remember?”
“Oh yes! Yes. I think.”
“Or else your blue shell top.”
“Right,” says Lalla, nodding earnestly. “Right.”
Lalla is high up in some top computer consultancy, with offices all over the world. She has two doctorates and an IQ of about a zillion — and claims she has severe clothes dyslexia. At first I thought she was joking.
“Write it down,” she says, thrusting a leather-bound organizer at me. “Write down all the combinations.”
“Well, OK… but, Lalla, I thought we were going to try to let you start putting a few outfits together yourself.”
“I know. I will. One day I will, I promise. Just… not this week. I can’t deal with that extra pressure.”
“Fine,” I say, hiding a smile, and begin to write in her organizer, screwing up my face as I try to remember all the clothes she’s got. I haven’t got much time if I’m going to find her an evening dress for tonight, call Mrs. Farlow back, and locate that knitwear I promised for Janey van Hassalt.
Every day here is completely frenetic; everyone is always in a hurry. But somehow the busier I get, and the more challenges are thrown at me — the more I love it.
“By the way,” says Lalla. “My sister — the one you said should wear burnt orange…”
“Oh yes! She was nice.”
“She said she saw you on the television. In England! Talking about clothes!”
“Oh yes,” I say, feeling a faint flush come to my face. “I’ve been doing a little slot for a daytime lifestyle show. ‘Becky from Barneys.’ It’s a kind of New York, fashiony thing…”
