I hesitate, hand on the door, feeling torn. I should go into the cathedral. I should take in some culture and come back to Saks later.
But then — how is that going to help me get to know whether I want to live in New York or not? Looking around some old cathedral?
Put it like this — how many millions of cathedrals do we have in England? And how many branches of Saks Fifth Avenue?
“Are you going in?” says an impatient voice behind me.
“Yes!” I say, coming to a decision. “Absolutely. I’m going in.”
I push my way through the heavy wooden doors and into the store, feeling almost sick with anticipation. I haven’t felt this excited since Octagon relaunched their designer floor and I was invited to the cardholders’ champagne reception.
I mean, visiting any shop for the first time is exciting. There’s always that electric buzz as you push open the door; that hope, that belief, that this is going to be the shop of all shops, which will bring you everything you ever wanted, at magically low prices. But this is a thousand times better. A million times. Because this isn’t just any old shop, is it? This is a world-famous shop. I’m actually here. I’m in Saks on Fifth Avenue in New York. As I walk slowly into the store — forcing myself not to rush — I feel as though I’m setting off for a date with a Hollywood movie star.
I wander through the perfumery, gazing around at the elegant Art Deco paneling; the high, airy ceilings; the foliage everywhere. God, this has to be one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever been in. At the back are old- fashioned lifts which make you feel you’re in a film with Cary Grant, and on a little table is a pile of store directories. I pick one up, just to get my bearings… and I don’t quite believe it. There are ten floors to this store.
Ten.
I stare at the list, transfixed. I feel like a child trying to choose a sweetie in a chocolate factory. Where am I going to start? How should I do this? Start at the top? Start at the bottom? All these names, jumping out at me, calling to me. Anna Sui. Calvin Klein. Kate Spade. Kiehl’s. I am going to hyperventilate.
“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to see a girl with a Saks name badge smiling at me. “Can I help you?”
“Um… yes,” I say, still staring at the directory. “I’m just trying to work out where to start, really.”
“Were you interested in clothes? Or accessories? Or shoes?”
“Yes,” I say dazedly. “Both. All. Everything. Erm… a bag,” I say randomly. “I need a new bag!”
Which is true. I mean, I’ve brought bags with me — but you can always do with a new bag. Plus, I’ve been noticing that all the women in Manhattan seem to have very smart designer bags — so this is a very good way of acclimatizing myself to the city.
The girl gives me a friendly smile.
“Bags and accessories are through there,” she says, pointing. “You might want to start there and work your way up.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’ll do. Thanks!”
God, I adore shopping abroad. I mean, shopping anywhere is always great — but the advantages of doing it abroad are:
1. You can buy things you can’t get in Britain.2. You can name-drop when you get back home. (“Actually, I picked this up in New York.”)3. Foreign money doesn’t count, so you can spend as much as you like.
OK, I know that last one isn’t entirely true. Somewhere in my head I know that dollars are proper money, with a real value. But I mean, look at them. I just can’t take them seriously. I’ve got a whole wodge of them in my purse, and I feel as though I’m carrying around the bank from a Monopoly set. Yesterday I went and bought some magazines from a newsstand, and as I handed over a twenty-dollar bill, it was just like playing shop. It’s like some weird form of jet lag — you move into another currency and suddenly feel as though you’re spending nothing.
So as I walk around the bag department, trying out gorgeous bag after gorgeous bag, I’m not taking too much notice of the prices. Occasionally I lift a price tag and make a feeble attempt to work out how much that is in real money — but I have to confess, I can’t remember the exact exchange rate.
But the point is, it doesn’t matter. Because this is America, and everyone knows that prices in America are really low. It’s common knowledge. So basically, I’m working on the principle that everything’s a bargain. I mean, look at all these gorgeous designer handbags. They’re probably half what they’d cost in England, if not less!
As I’m hovering over the DKNY display, an elderly woman wearing a gold-colored suit and carrying a Gucci tote comes up to me.
“Which one matches?” she says. “This… ” She holds out a tan satin bag. “… or this… ” She holds out a paler one. “It’s for evening,” she adds.
“Erm…” I look at her suit and at the bags again — and wonder how to tell her they don’t match at all. “The thing is, they’re both a kind of brownish color… and your suit’s more of a golden, yellowish…”
“Not the suit!” she exclaims. “The dog!”
I look at her perplexedly — then spot a tiny face poking out of the Gucci tote. Oh my God! Is that a real live dog?
“Don’t hide, Muffy!” says the woman, reaching into the bag and hauling it out. And honestly, it’s more like a rat than a dog — except a rat with a Gucci collar and a diamante name tag.
“You want your bag to match your… dog?” I say, just to be sure.
“If I can’t find anything, I’ll just have to have her hair tinted again.” The woman sighs. “But it’s so time- consuming…”
“No, don’t do that!” I say hastily. “I think the paler bag goes perfectly.”
“I think you’re right.” She gives it a critical look, then nods. “Thank you for your help. Do you have a dog?”
“Erm… not on me.”
The woman stares at me suspiciously — then stuffs the dog back in the Gucci tote. She walks off, and I resume my search, wondering if I need to buy a dog in order to be a real New Yorker. Except I only like big ones. And you couldn’t exactly lug a Labrador around in a Fendi clutch, could you?
Eventually I choose a beautiful Kate Spade bag in tan leather, and take it up to the counter. It costs five hundred dollars, which sounds quite a lot — but then, “a million lira” sounds like a lot too, doesn’t it? And that’s only about fifty pence. So this is sure to be a bargain.
As the assistant hands me my receipt, she even says something about it being “a gift”—and I beam in agreement.
“A complete gift! I mean, in London, it would probably cost—”
“Gina, are you going upstairs?” interrupts the woman, turning to a colleague. “Gina will show you to the seventh floor,” she says, and smiles at me.
“Right,” I say, in slight confusion. “Well… OK.”
Gina beckons me briskly and, after a moment’s hesitation, I follow her, wondering what’s on the seventh floor. Maybe some complimentary lounge for Kate Spade customers, with free champagne or something!
It’s only as we’re approaching a department entitled “Gift Wrapping” that I suddenly realize what’s going on. When I said gift, she must have thought I meant it was an actual—
“Here we are,” says Gina brightly. “The Saks signature box is complimentary — or choose from a range of quality wrap.”
“Right!” I say. “Well… thanks very much! Although actually, I wasn’t really planning to—”
But Gina has already gone — and the two ladies behind the gift wrap counter are smiling encouragingly at me.
This is a bit embarrassing.
“Have you decided which paper you’d like?” says the elder of the two ladies, beaming at me. “We also have a choice of ribbons and adornments.”
Oh, sod it. I’ll get it wrapped. I mean, it only costs $7.50—and it’ll be nice to have something to open when I
