“Then don’t hide the statement under the mattress. The maid in Sri Lanka found it when she was making the bed and gave it to me.” He kisses me and picks up his briefcase. “Enjoy the city!”
As the door closes I feel a tad disgruntled. Little does Luke know. Little does Luke know I was actually planning to buy him a present today. Years ago, when I first met him, Luke had this belt which he really loved, made of gorgeous Italian leather. But he left it in the bathroom one day and it got hot leg-wax on it.
Which was not entirely my fault. Like I told him, when you’re in total agony, you don’t think “What would be the most suitable implement to scrape burning wax off my shins?” You just grab the nearest thing.
Anyway. So I was planning to buy him a replacement today. A little “end of honeymoon” gift. But maybe he doesn’t deserve it if he’s going to spy on me and read my private credit card statements. I mean, what a cheek. Do I read his private letters?
Well, actually I do. Some of them are really interesting! But the point is—
Oh my God. I freeze, struck by a dreadful thought. Does that mean he saw how much I spent in Hong Kong that day he went off to see the stock exchange?
Fuck.
And he hasn’t said anything about it. OK, maybe he does deserve a present, after all.
I take a sip of cappuccino. Anyway, I’m the one laughing, not Luke. He thinks he’s so clever, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve got a secret genius plan.
Half an hour later I arrive downstairs at reception, wearing tight black trousers (not quite capri but close enough), a striped T-shirt, and a scarf knotted round my neck, European-style. I head straight for the foreign exchange desk and beam at the woman behind it.
“Ciao!” I say brightly. “Il . . .”
I trail off into silence.
What was I thinking? That if I started confidently enough, with hand gestures, Italian would just pour naturally out of my mouth?
“I’d like to change some money into euros, please,” I say, switching into English. I reach into my bag and triumphantly pull out a bundle of creased-up notes. “Rupees, dirhams, ringgits . . .” I dump the notes on the counter and reach for some more. “Kenyan dollars . . .” I peer at a strange pink note I don’t recognize. “Whatever that one is . . .”
It is incredible how much money I was carrying around with me without even noticing! I had loads of rupees in my bath bag, and a whole bunch of Ethiopian birrs inside a paperback book. Plus there were loads of odd notes and coins floating around at the bottom of my carry-on bag.
And the point is, this is free money! This is money we already had.
I watch excitedly as the woman sorts it all into piles. “You have seventeen different currencies here,” she says at last, looking a bit dazed.
“We’ve been to lots of countries,” I explain. “So, how much is it all worth?”
As the woman starts tapping on a small computer, I feel quite excited. Maybe the exchange rates on some of these have moved in my favor. Maybe this is all worth loads!
Then I feel a bit guilty. After all, it’s Luke’s money too. Abruptly I decide that if it’s more than a hundred euros, I’ll give half back to him. That’s only fair. But that’ll still leave me with fifty! Not bad, for doing absolutely nothing!
“After commission . . .” The woman looks up. “Seven forty-five.”
“Seven hundred and forty-five euros?” I stare at her in joy and amazement. I had no idea I was carrying around that kind of money! God, it just shows! All those people who say, “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves” . . . they’re right! Who would have thought it?
I’ll be able to buy a present for Luke and a pair of Míu Míu shoes, and—
“Not seven hundred and forty-five.” The woman scribbles it on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Seven euros, forty-five cents.”
“What?” My happy smile slips off my face. That can’t be right.
“Seven euros, forty-five cents,” repeats the woman patiently. “How would you like that?”
How can so much genuine money be worth only seven euros? It makes no sense. As I explained to the woman, you could buy absolutely loads in India for those rupees. You could probably buy a whole car . . . or a palace, even. But she wouldn’t budge. Oh, well.
I start walking down the street, carefully following the map the hotel concierge gave me. He was such a helpful man. I explained to him how I wanted to take in the cultural sights of Milan, and he started talking about Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, which he “knew” I would be desperate to see.
Obviously I do want to see it. Very much so. But priorities are priorities. So I politely explained I was actually more interested in contemporary Italian culture, and he started going on about some artist who does short films about death.
So then I clarified that by “contemporary Italian culture” I was really referring to cultural icons such as Prada and Gucci—and his eyes lit up in understanding. He marked a street for me which is in an area called the Golden Quadrilateral and is apparently “full of culture” which he was “sure I would appreciate.”
It’s a sunny day with a light breeze, and the sunlight is glinting off windows and cars, and whizzy Vespas are zipping everywhere. God, Milan is cool. Every single person I pass is wearing designer sunglasses and carrying a designer handbag—even the men!
For a moment I consider buying Luke a continental handbag instead of a belt. I try to imagine him walking into the office with a chic little bag dangling from his wrist. . . .
Hmm. Maybe I’ll stick to a belt.
Suddenly I notice a girl in front of me wearing a cream trouser suit, high strappy shoes, and a pink scooter helmet with leopard-print trim.
I stare at her, gripped with desire. God, I want one of those helmets. I mean, I know I haven’t got a Vespa—but I could wear the helmet anyway, couldn’t I? It could be my signature look. People would call me the Girl in the Vespa Helmet. Plus, it would protect me from muggers, so it would actually be a safety feature. . . .
Maybe I’ll ask where she got it.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” I call out, impressed at my own sudden fluency. “J’adore votre chapeau!”
The girl gives me a blank look, then disappears round a corner. Which, frankly, I think is a bit unfriendly. I mean, here I am, making an effort to speak her lang—
Oh. Oh, right.
OK, that’s a bit embarrassing.
Well, never mind. I’m not here to buy Vespa helmets, anyway. I’m here to buy a present for Luke. That’s what marriage is all about, after all. Putting your partner first. Placing his needs before your own.
Plus, what I’m thinking is, I can always fly back here for the day. I mean, it wouldn’t take any time from London, would it? And Suze could come too, I think with sudden delight. God, that would be fun. I suddenly have an image of Suze and me, striding down the street, arm in arm, swinging our bags and laughing. A girly trip to Milan! We have to do it!
I reach another corner and stop to consult my map. I must be getting closer. He said it wasn’t that far away. . . .
Just then a woman walks past me carrying a bag from Versace, and I stiffen with excitement. I have to be getting close to the source! This is just like when we visited that volcano in Peru, and the guide kept pointing out signs that we were nearing the core. If I just keep my eyes peeled for more Versace bags. . . .
I walk forward a little more—and there’s another one! That woman in oversize shades having a cappuccino has got one, plus about six zillion bags from Armani. She gesticulates to her friend and reaches inside one of them—and pulls out a pot of jam, with an Armani label.
Armani jam? Armani does jam?
Maybe in Milan everything has a fashion label! Maybe Dolce & Gabanna does toothpaste. Maybe Prada does tomato ketchup!
I start walking on again, more and more quickly, prickling with excitement. I can sense the shops in the air. The designer bags are appearing mo
re frequently. The air is becoming heavy with expensive scent. I can practically hear the sound of hangers on rails and zips being done up. . . .
And then, suddenly, there it is.
A long, elegant boulevard stretches before me, with the chicest, most designer-clad people on earth milling about. Tanned, model-like girls in Pucci prints and heels are sauntering along with powerful-looking men in immaculate linen suits. A girl in white Versace jeans and red lipstick is pushing along a pram upholstered in Louis Vuitton monogrammed leather. A blond woman in a brown leather miniskirt trimmed with rabbit fur is gabbling into a matching mobile phone while dragging along her little boy, dressed head to foot in Gucci.
And . . . the shops. Shop after shop after shop.
Ferragamo. Valentino. Dior. Versace. Prada.
As I venture down the street, my head swiveling from side to side, I feel giddy. It’s complete culture shock. How long has it been since I’ve seen a shop that wasn’t selling ethnic crafts and wooden beads? I mean . . . it’s been months! I feel like I’ve been on some starvation cure, and now I’m gorging on tiramisu with double cream.
Just look at that amazing coat. Look at those shoes.
Where do I start? Where do I even—
I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in the middle of the street, like the donkey in that Aesop’s fable who couldn’t choose between the bales of hay. They’ll find me in years to come, still frozen to the spot, clutching my credit card.
Suddenly my eyes fall on a display of leather belts and wallets in the window of a nearby boutique.
Leather. Luke’s belt. This is what I’m here to buy. Focus.
I totter toward the shop and push open the door, still in a daze. At once I’m hit by the overwhelming smell of expensive leather. In fact, it’s so strong it actually seems to clear my head.
The shop is amazing. It’s carpeted in pale taupe, with softly lit display cabinets. I can see wallets, belts, bags, jackets. . . . I pause by a mannequin wearing the most amazing chocolate brown coat, all leather and satin. I stroke it fondly, then lift the price tag—and nearly faint.
But, of course, it’s in lire. I smile in relief. No wonder it looks so—
Oh no. It’s euros now.
Bloody hell.
I gulp, and move away from the mannequin.
Which just proves that Dad was right all along—the single currency was a huge mistake. When I was thirteen I went on holiday to Rome with my parents—and the whole point about lire was, the prices looked like a lot but they weren’t really. You could buy something for about a zillion lire—and in real life it cost about three quid! It was fantastic!
Plus, if you accidentally ended up buying a bottle of really expensive perfume, no one (i.e., your parents) could blame you, because, like Mum said, who on earth can divide numbers like that in their head?
As I start to look through a display of belts, a stocky middle-aged man comes out of a fitting room, chomping on a cigar and wearing an amazing black cashmere coat trimmed with leather. He’s about fifty and very tanned, with close-cropped gray hair and piercing blue eyes. The only thing which doesn’t look quite so good is his nose, which to be honest is a bit of a mishmash.
“Oy, Roberto,” he says in a raspy voice.
He’s English! His accent is weird, though. Kind of transatlantic meets cockney.
A shop assistant in a black suit with angular black glasses comes hurrying out from the fitting room, holding a tape measure.
“Yes, Signor Temple?”
“How much cashmere is in this?” The stocky man smooths down the coat critically.
“Signore, this is one hundred percent cashmere.”
“The best cashmere?” The stocky man lifts a warning finger. “I don’t want you palming me off now. You know my motto. Only the best.”
The guy in black glasses gives a little wince of dismay.
“Signore, we would not, er . . . palm you off.”
The man gazes at himself in a mirror silently for a few seconds, then nods.
“Fair enough. I’ll take three. One to London.” He counts off on stubby fingers. “One to Switzerland. One to New York. Got it?”
The assistant in black glasses glances over at me, and I realize it’s totally obvious I’m eavesdropping.
“Oh, hi!” I say quickly. “I’d like to buy this, please, and have it gift wrapped.” I hold up the belt I’ve chosen.
“Silvia will help you.” He gestures dismissively toward the woman at the till, then turns back to his customer.
I hand the belt over to Silvia and watch idly as she wraps it up in shiny bronze paper. I’m half admiring her deft ability with ribbon and half listening to Mr. Cashmere, who’s now looking at a briefcase.
“Don’t like the texture,” he states. “Feels different. Something’s wrong.”
“We have changed our supplier recently. . . .” The black glasses guy is wringing his hands. “But it is a very fine leather, signore. . . .”
He trails off as Mr. Cashmere takes his cigar from his mouth and gives him a look.
“You’re palming me off, Roberto,” he says. “I pay good money, I want quality. What you’ll do is make me up one using leather from the old supplier. Got it?”
He looks over, sees me watching, and winks.
“Best place for leather in the world, this. But don’t take any of their crap.”
“I won’t!” I beam back. “And I love that coat, by the way!”
“Very kind of you.” He nods affably. “You an actress? Model?”
“Er . . . no. Neither.”
“No matter.” He waves his cigar.
“How will you pay, signorina?” Silvia interrupts us.
“Oh! Er . . . here you are.”
As I hand over my Visa card I feel a glow of goodness in my heart. Buying presents for other people is so much more satisfying than buying for yourself! And this will take me up to my limit on my Visa card, so that’s my shopping all finished for the day.
What shall I do next? Maybe I’ll take in some culture. I could go and look at that famous painting the concierge was talking about.
I can hear a buzz of interest coming from the back of the shop and turn idly to see what’s happening. A mirrored door to a stockroom is open, and a woman in a black suit is coming out, surrounded by a gaggle of eager assistants. What on earth is she holding? Why is everyone so—
Then suddenly I catch a glimpse of what she’s carrying. My heart stops. My skin starts to prickle.
It can’t be.
But it is. She’s carrying an Angel bag.
Three
It’s an Angel bag. In the flesh.
I thought they were all sold out everywhere. I thought they were totally impossible to get hold of.
The woman sets it down ceremoniously on a creamy suede pedestal and stands back to admire it. The whole shop has fallen silent. It’s like a member of the royal family has arrived. Or a movie star.
I’m transfixed.
It’s stunning. It’s totally stunning. The calfskin looks as soft as butter. The handpainted angel is all in delicate shades of aquamarine. And underneath is the name Dante written in diamanté.
My legs are all wobbly and my hands feel sweaty. This is better than when we saw the white tigers in Bengal. I mean, let’s face it. Angel bags are probably rarer than white tigers.
And there’s one in front of my nose.
I could just buy it flashes through my brain. I could buy it!
“Miss? Signorina? Can you hear me?” A voice pierces my thoughts, and I realize Silvia at the till is trying to get my attention.
“Oh,” I say, flustered. “Yes.” I pick up the pen and scribble any old signature. “So . . . is that a real Angel bag?”
“Yes, it is,” she says in a smug, bored tone, like a bouncer who knows the band personally and is used to dealing with besotted groupies.
“How much . . .” I swallow. “How much is it?”
“Two thousand euros.”
“Right.” I nod.
Two thousand euros. For a bag.
But if I had an Angel bag I wouldn’t need to buy any new clothes. Ever. Who needs a new skirt when you have the hippest bag in town?
I don’t care how much it is. I have to have it.
“I’d like to buy it, please,” I say in a rush.
There’s a stunned silence around the shop—then all the assistants burst into peals of laughter.
“You cannot buy the bag,” says Silvia pityingly. “There is a waiting list.”
Oh. A waiting list. Of course there would be a waiting list. I’m an idiot.
“Do you want to join the list?” she asks as she hands my Visa card back.
OK, let’s be sensible. I’m not really going to go on a waiting list in Milan. I mean, for a start, how would I pick it up? I’d have to get them to FedEx it. Or come over specially, or—
“Yes,” I hear my own voice saying. “Yes, please.”
After I write down my details, Silvia pops the form in a drawer. “We will call you when one is available.”
“And . . . when might that be?” I try not to sound too anxious.
“I cannot say.” She shrugs.
“How many people are ahead of me on the list?”
“We do not disclose such details.”
“Right.”
I feel a tiny dart of frustration. I mean, there it is. There’s the bag, a few feet away from me . . . and I can’t have it.
Never mind. I’m on the list. There’s nothing more I can do.
I pick up the carrier bag containing Luke’s belt and slowly walk away, pausing by the Angel bag. God, it’s heart-stopping. The coolest, most beautiful bag in the world.
I’m suddenly struck by an idea.
“I was just wondering,” I say, hurrying back to the till. “Do you know if everyone on the waiting list actually wants an Angel bag?”
“They are on the list.” Silvia says it as though she’s speaking to a total moron.
“Yes, but they might all have changed their minds,” I explain, my words tumbling out in excitement. “Or already have bought one! And then it would be my turn! Don’t you see? I could have this bag!”
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