class or a book group or something. And
my
new friends will be really nice ones who don’t ride horses and have children with stupid names like Cosmo. . . .
I take a sip of coffee and plaster some more chocolate spread on my toast. I’m sitting in the kitchen of Luke’s flat in Maida Vale, having a late breakfast.
I mean . . .
our
flat in Maida Vale. I keep forgetting, it’s half mine now! Luke lived here for ages before we were married, but when we went to live in New York he had it all done up and rented it out. And it is the trendiest place in the world. All minimalist, with this amazing stainless-steel kitchen, pale beige carpets, and just the odd piece of modern art here and there.
I do like it. Of course I do.
Although, I suppose if I’m
totally
honest, it’s a tad bare for my taste. Luke has quite a different style from mine when it comes to decorating. His approach is basically “no things anywhere,” whereas mine is more “lots of things everywhere.”
But it doesn’t matter, because I read this article about couples in an interiors magazine, and it said fusing two different styles need not be a problem. Apparently, all we have to do is meld our individual ideas and do some mood boards together and create a signature look.
And today is the perfect day to start. Because any minute now, all our honeymoon purchases are going to be delivered from the storage company! Luke’s stayed behind from work especially to help. It’ll be quite a project, I expect. Which just shows: I’m so busy, I don’t even have
time
for friends.
I’m feeling really excited about seeing all our souvenirs again! Arranging the little mementos of our honeymoon around the apartment. It’ll really make a difference to this place, having a few personal objets here and there.
“The post’s here,” Luke says, coming into the kitchen. He’s in his suit, since he’ll be going into the office later, and his hair is trimmed all short and businesslike again. He had it cut almost as soon as we got back to London—because, as he said, Italy is one thing, but Britain is another.
I suppose he has a point. But I can’t help feeling a bit wistful every time I see his bare neck. That little untanned patch of skin below his hairline is the only reminder of the way he was on our honeymoon.
“There’s a letter for you,” he adds, handing me an envelope.
“Oh, right!” I take it from him, feeling nervous.
Ever since we got back to London, I’ve been approaching all the big department stores for a job as a personal shopper. I’ve got a great reference from Barneys and everyone’s been really nice to me—but so far all I’m getting told is that there are no openings right now.
Which, to be honest, has been a bit of a blow. I thought I’d be fighting off offers. I even had this little fantasy where all the head personal shoppers at Harrods and Harvey Nichols and Selfridges took me out to lunch and gave me free clothes to persuade me to join them.
As calmly as I can, I pull the letter out of the envelope. This one is from a new shop called The Look, which hasn’t even opened yet. It’s going to be a huge new store just up from Oxford Street, full of great clothes and accessories, and the gimmick is that there will be loads of personal shoppers available to help you pull your look together. They want someone to run and train the team, and had already heard about me from their contact in New York. I went to see them a couple of days ago and I
thought
I did OK, but . . .
“Oh my God!” I look up in disbelief. “I got it! They want me!”
“Fantastic!” Luke’s face creases in a smile. “Congratulations!” He puts an arm round me and gives me a kiss.
“Except . . . I won’t be needed for three months,” I say, reading farther down. “That’s when the store opens.” I put the letter down and look at him. “Three whole months. That’s quite a long time not to have a job.”
Or any money, I’m
my
new friends will be really nice ones who don’t ride horses and have children with stupid names like Cosmo. . . .
I take a sip of coffee and plaster some more chocolate spread on my toast. I’m sitting in the kitchen of Luke’s flat in Maida Vale, having a late breakfast.
I mean . . .
our
flat in Maida Vale. I keep forgetting, it’s half mine now! Luke lived here for ages before we were married, but when we went to live in New York he had it all done up and rented it out. And it is the trendiest place in the world. All minimalist, with this amazing stainless-steel kitchen, pale beige carpets, and just the odd piece of modern art here and there.
I do like it. Of course I do.
Although, I suppose if I’m
totally
honest, it’s a tad bare for my taste. Luke has quite a different style from mine when it comes to decorating. His approach is basically “no things anywhere,” whereas mine is more “lots of things everywhere.”
But it doesn’t matter, because I read this article about couples in an interiors magazine, and it said fusing two different styles need not be a problem. Apparently, all we have to do is meld our individual ideas and do some mood boards together and create a signature look.
And today is the perfect day to start. Because any minute now, all our honeymoon purchases are going to be delivered from the storage company! Luke’s stayed behind from work especially to help. It’ll be quite a project, I expect. Which just shows: I’m so busy, I don’t even have
time
for friends.
I’m feeling really excited about seeing all our souvenirs again! Arranging the little mementos of our honeymoon around the apartment. It’ll really make a difference to this place, having a few personal objets here and there.
“The post’s here,” Luke says, coming into the kitchen. He’s in his suit, since he’ll be going into the office later, and his hair is trimmed all short and businesslike again. He had it cut almost as soon as we got back to London—because, as he said, Italy is one thing, but Britain is another.
I suppose he has a point. But I can’t help feeling a bit wistful every time I see his bare neck. That little untanned patch of skin below his hairline is the only reminder of the way he was on our honeymoon.
“There’s a letter for you,” he adds, handing me an envelope.
“Oh, right!” I take it from him, feeling nervous.
Ever since we got back to London, I’ve been approaching all the big department stores for a job as a personal shopper. I’ve got a great reference from Barneys and everyone’s been really nice to me—but so far all I’m getting told is that there are no openings right now.
Which, to be honest, has been a bit of a blow. I thought I’d be fighting off offers. I even had this little fantasy where all the head personal shoppers at Harrods and Harvey Nichols and Selfridges took me out to lunch and gave me free clothes to persuade me to join them.
As calmly as I can, I pull the letter out of the envelope. This one is from a new shop called The Look, which hasn’t even opened yet. It’s going to be a huge new store just up from Oxford Street, full of great clothes and accessories, and the gimmick is that there will be loads of personal shoppers available to help you pull your look together. They want someone to run and train the team, and had already heard about me from their contact in New York. I went to see them a couple of days ago and I
thought
I did OK, but . . .
“Oh my God!” I look up in disbelief. “I got it! They want me!”
“Fantastic!” Luke’s face creases in a smile. “Congratulations!” He puts an arm round me and gives me a kiss.
“Except . . . I won’t be needed for three months,” I say, reading farther down. “That’s when the store opens.” I put the letter down and look at him. “Three whole months. That’s quite a long time not to have a job.”
Or any money, I’m
Similar Books
