Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Plus — just a very small point — I still don’t have any clothes.

I’ve already secretly rung down to reception three times about my Special Express. (Once while Luke was in the shower, once while I was in the shower — from the posh bathroom phone — and once very quickly when I sent Luke into the corridor because I said I heard a cat meowing.)

And it hasn’t arrived. I have nil clothes. Nada.

Which hasn’t mattered up until now, because I’ve just been lounging around in bed. But I can’t possibly eat any more croissants or drink any more coffee, nor can I have another shower, and Luke’s half-dressed already.

I’m just going to have to put on yesterday’s clothes again. Which is really hideous, but what else can I do? I’ll just pretend I’m sentimental about them, or maybe hope I can slip them on and Luke won’t even realize. I mean, do men really notice what you…

Hang on.

Hang on a minute. Where are yesterday’s clothes? I’m sure I dropped them just there on the floor…

“Luke?” I say, as casually as possible. “Have you seen the clothes I was wearing yesterday?”

“Oh yes,” he says, glancing up from his suitcase. “I sent them to the laundry this morning, along with my stuff.”

I stare at him, unable to breathe.

My only clothes in the whole world have gone to the laundry?

“When… when will they be back?” I say at last.

“Tomorrow morning.” Luke turns to look at me. “Sorry, I should have said. But it’s not a problem, is it? I mean, I don’t think you have to worry. They do an excellent job.”

“Oh no!” I say in a high, brittle voice. “No, I’m not worried!”

“Good,” he says, and smiles.

“Good,” I say, and smile back.

What am I going to do?

“Oh, and there’s plenty of room in the wardrobe,” says Luke, “if you want me to hang anything up.” He reaches toward my little case and in a panic, I hear myself crying “Nooo!” before I can stop myself. “It’s all right,” I add, as he looks at me in surprise. “My clothes are mostly… knitwear.”

Oh God. Oh God. Now he’s putting on his shoes. What am I going to do?

OK, come on, Becky, I think frantically. Clothes. Something to wear. Doesn’t matter what.

One of Luke’s suits?

No. He’ll just think it’s too weird, and anyway, his suits all cost about £1,000 so I won’t be able to roll the sleeves up.

My hotel robe? Pretend robes and waffle slippers are the latest fashion? Oh, but I can’t walk around in a dressing gown as if I think I’m in a spa. Everyone will laugh at me.

Come on, there must be clothes in a hotel. What about… the chambermaids’ uniforms! Yes, that’s more like it! They must keep a rack of them somewhere, mustn’t they? Neat little dresses with matching hats. I could tell Luke they’re the latest thing from Prada — and just hope no one asks me to clear out their room…

“By the way,” says Luke, reaching into his case, “you left this behind at my flat.”

And as I look up, startled, he chucks something across the room at me. It’s soft, it’s fabric… as I catch it, I want to weep with relief. It’s clothes! A single oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, to be precise. I have never been so glad to see a plain washed-out gray T-shirt in my life.

“Thanks!” I say. And I force myself to count to ten before I add casually, “Actually, maybe I’ll wear this today.”

“That?” says Luke, giving me a strange look. “I thought it was a nightshirt.”

“It is! It’s a nightshirt-slash-dress,” I say, popping it over my head — and thank God, it comes to halfway down my thighs. It could easily be a dress. And ha! I’ve got a stretchy black headband in my makeup bag, which just about fits me as a belt.

“Very nice,” says Luke quizzically, watching me wriggle into it. “A little on the short side…”

“It’s a minidress,” I say firmly, and turn to look at my reflection. And… oh God, it is a bit short. But it’s too late to do anything about that now. I step into my clementine sandals and shake back my hair, not allowing myself to think about all the great outfits I had planned for this morning.

“Here,” says Luke. He reaches for my Denny and George scarf and winds it slowly round my neck. “Denny and George scarf, no knickers. Just the way I like it.”

“I’m going to wear knickers!” I say indignantly.

Which is true. I’ll wait till Luke’s gone, then pinch a pair of his boxer shorts.