Shop 2 - Shopaholic Takes Manhattan by Sophie Kinsella

Author:Sophie Kinsella
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2004-03-02T15:39:48+00:00

We arrive outside the restaurant, and Judd has already hailed a taxi for me.

“Great to meet you, Rebecca,” he says. “We’ll report back to our vice-president of production, and we’ll . . . be in touch! Enjoy the Guggenheim.”

“Absolutely!” I say, shaking hands with each of them. “I will. And thank you so much!”

I get into the taxi and slam the door behind me.

“Hi,” I say to the taxi driver, watching as Judd and Kent walk away. “I’d like to go to—”

“The Guggenheim,” chips in the driver. “I heard.”

“No, actually, I’d like to go to SoHo. Sephora on Broadway.”

The driver swivels in his seat to look at me. He’s huge and swarthy, and his face is creased in a frown.

“What about the Guggenheim?”

“Erm . . . I’ll go later on.”

“Later on?” says the driver. “You can’t rush the Guggenheim. The Guggenheim is a very fine museum. Picasso. Kandinsky. You don’t want to miss it.”

“I won’t miss it! Honestly, I promise. If we could just go to Sephora now? Please?”

There’s a disapproving silence from the front.

“All right,” he says at last, and starts the engine.

As we drive off, I sink happily into my seat. I think lunch went really well, actually. Except maybe when I told them the anecdote about Rory and the guide dog. And when I tripped over on my way to the loos. But then, that could happen to anybody. The truth is, I really am settling into New York. It’s only been three days, but I’m getting the language and everything. Like, yesterday, I said “Go figure” without even thinking. And I called a skirt cute!

We pull up at a pedestrian crossing and I’m peering interestedly out, wondering which street we’re at—when suddenly I freeze in horror.

There are Judd and Kent. Right there, in front of us. They’re crossing the road, and Kent is saying something animatedly, and Judd is nodding. Oh God. I can’t let them see me heading in the wrong direction. Quick, hide.

My heart thumping, I sink down off my seat and kind of crouch on the floor, trying to hide behind my Wall Street Journal. God, why isn’t there more space in these taxis?

“You OK back there?” says the taxi driver.

“Fine,” I gulp. I raise my head cautiously—and thank goodness Judd and Kent have disappeared. As I scramble back up onto the seat, I bump my head on the window.

“Hey there!” says a disembodied voice, making me jump with fright. “You be careful! Safety counts, OK? So buckle up!”

“OK,” I say humbly. “Sorry about that. I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

I fasten my seat belt with clumsy fingers, and catch the eye of the driver in the mirror.

“It’s a recorded announcement,” he says scornfully. “You’re talking to a tape machine.”

I knew that.

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