Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

I mean, I’m looking quite nice today, I think. In fact, I’m looking really sharp. There was a spread in American Vogue on how black and white is the look at the moment, so I’ve teamed a black pencil skirt with a white shirt I found in the sample sale the other day, and black shoes with fantastic high heels. And I’ve shaded my eyes just like Mona showed me. I was really pleased with myself this morning. But now, as Elinor surveys me, I’m suddenly aware that one of my nails is very slightly chipped, and my shoe has got a tiny smear on the side — and oh God, is that a thread hanging down from my skirt? Should I quickly try to pull it off?

Casually, I put my hand down on my lap to cover up the loose thread. Maybe she didn’t see. It’s not that obvious, is it?

But Elinor is silently reaching into her bag, and a moment later she hands me a pair of small silver tortoiseshell-handled scissors.

“Oh… er, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I snip the offending thread, and hand back the scissors, feeling like a schoolchild. “That always happens,” I add, and give a nervous little giggle. “I look in the mirror in the morning and I think I look fine, but then the minute I get out of the house…”

Great, now I’m gabbling. Slow down, Becky.

“The English are incapable of good grooming,” says Elinor. “Unless it’s a horse.”

The corners of her lips move a couple of millimeters up into a smile — although the rest of her face is static — and I burst into sycophantic laughter.

“That’s really good! My flatmate loves horses. But I mean, you’re English, aren’t you? And you look absolutely… immaculate!”

I’m really pleased I’ve managed to throw in a little compliment, but Elinor’s smile abruptly disappears. She gives me a blank stare and suddenly I can see where Luke gets that impassive scary expression from.

“I’m a naturalized American citizen.”

“Oh right,” I say. “Well, I suppose you’ve been here for a while. But I mean, in your heart, aren’t you still… wouldn’t you say you’re a… I mean, Luke’s very English…”

“I have lived in New York for the majority of my adult life,” says Elinor coldly. “Any attachment of mine to Britain has long disappeared. The place is twenty years out of date.”

“Right.” I nod fervently, trying to look as though I understand completely. God, this is hard work. I feel like I’m being observed under a microscope. Why couldn’t Luke have come? Or why couldn’t she have rescheduled? I mean, doesn’t she want to see him?

“Rebecca, who colors your hair?” says Elinor abruptly.

“It’s… it’s my own,” I say, nervously touching a strand.

“Meione,” she echoes suspiciously. “I don’t know the name. At which salon does she work?”

For a moment I’m completely silenced.

“Erm… well,” I flounder at last. “Actually… I… I’m not sure you’ll have heard of it. It’s very… tiny.”

“Well, I think you should change colorist,” says Elinor. “It’s a very unsubtle shade.”

“Right!” I say hurriedly. “Absolutely.”

“Guinevere von Landlenburg swears by Julien on Bond Street. Do you know Guinevere von Landlenburg?”

I hesitate thoughtfully, as though going through a mental address book. As though checking all the many, many Guineveres I know.

“Um… no,” I say at last. “I don’t think I do.”

“They have a house in South Hampton.” She takes out a compact and checks her reflection. “We spent some time there last year with the de Bonnevilles.”

I stiffen. The de Bonnevilles. As in Sacha de Bonneville. As in Luke’s old girlfriend.

Luke never told me they were friends of the family.

OK, I’m not going to stress. Just because Elinor is tactless enough to mention Sacha’s family. It’s not as though she’s actually mentioned her—

“Sacha is such an accomplished girl,” says Elinor, snapping her compact shut. “Have you ever seen her water-ski?”

“No.”

“Or play polo?”

“No,” I say morosely. “I haven’t.”

Suddenly Elinor is rapping imperiously on the glass panel behind the driver.

“You took that corner too fast!” she says. “I won’t tell you again, I don’t wish to be rocked in my seat. So, Rebecca,” she says, sitting back in her seat and giving me a dissatisfied glance. “What are your own hobbies?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">