“Something wrong?” inquires Philip.
“No,” I mutter. But I can’t bring myself to smile. In front of me, my new swirly coat and high-heeled boots are disappearing into a puddle, like the Wicked Witch of the West. No promotion. Just a press conference about. . I turn over the card. About a new unit trust. How could anyone possibly describe that as interesting?
Two
THERE’S JUST ONE ESSENTIAL purchase I have to make on the way to the press conference — and that’s the Financial Times. The FT is by far the best accessory a girl can have. Its major advantages are: 1. It’s a nice color.2. It only costs eighty-five pence.3. If you walk into a room with it tucked under your arm, people take you seriously. With an FT under your arm, you can talk about the most frivolous things in the world, and instead of thinking you’re an airhead, people think you’re a heavyweight intellectual who has broader interests, too.
At my interview for Successful Saving, I went in holding copies of the Financial Times and the Investor’s Chronicle — and I didn’t get asked about finance once. As I remember it, we spent the whole time talking about holiday villas and gossiping about other editors.
So I stop at a newsstand and buy a copy of the FT. There’s some huge headline about Rutland Bank on the front page, and I’m thinking maybe I should at least skim it, when I catch my reflection in the window of Denny and George.
I don’t look bad, I think. I’m wearing my black skirt from French Connection, and a plain white T-shirt from Knickerbox, and a little angora cardigan which I got from M&S but looks like it might be Agnès b. And my new square-toed shoes from Hobbs. Even better, although no one can see them, I know that underneath I’m wearing my gorgeous new matching knickers and bra with embroidered yellow rosebuds. They’re the best bit of my entire outfit. In fact, I almost wish I could be run over so that the world would see them.
It’s a habit of mine, itemizing all the clothes I’m wearing, as though for a fashion page. I’ve been doing it for years — ever since I used to read Just Seventeen. Every issue, they’d stop a girl on the street, take a picture of her, and list all her clothes. “T-Shirt: Chelsea Girl, Jeans: Top Shop, Shoes: borrowed from friend.” I used to read those lists avidly, and to this day, if I buy something from a shop that’s a bit uncool, I cut the label out. So that if I’m ever stopped in the street, I can pretend I don’t know where it’s from.
So anyway. There I am, with the FT tucked under my arm, thinking I look pretty good, and half wishing someone from Just Seventeen would pop up with a camera — when suddenly my eyes focus and snap to attention, and my heart stops. In the window of Denny and George is a discreet sign. It’s dark green with cream lettering, and it says: sale.
I stare at it, and my skin’s all prickly. It can’t be true. Denny and George can’t be having a sale. They never have a sale. Their scarves and pashminas are so coveted, they could probably sell them at twice the price. Everyone I know in the entire world aspires to owning a Denny and George scarf. (Except my mum and dad, obviously. My mum thinks if you can’t buy it at Bentalls of Kingston, you don’t need it.)
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.