knew it, we were at my stop. I dashed through the open doors and headed up the steps, trying not to look around with too much confusion. As I exited on to Spring Street, the super strong sun caught me off guard and I almost toppled backwards into a girl, so cool looking I felt sure that she must be famous. Or at least sleeping with someone famous.
‘Sorry,’ I gave her my best ‘what a tit’ grin.
The girl gave me an uncomfortable stare and moved on. Watching her lithe limbs saunter on down the street as if she owned it, I wondered how much I would have to offer her for a blowjob. If I was commanding a hundred dollars, she could be into five figures.
Jenny had told me I’d love Soho and she was right. It was so different to the strict, structured grid system of midtown. I loved being able to see for what seemed like for ever, up and across Manhattan, but this was like stepping into a film set. Even though I’d never been here, the streets seemed so familiar. Either I’d found my spiritual home or I’d watched too much TV. I wandered down the street, towards what I hoped was Broadway, peering in windows, watching the people and intermittently looking down at my shameful old handbag. Before I could decide what to do with it, I found Broadway. And another Bloomingdale’s. Hurrah.
I fought my way through the cosmetics counters, trying to strike a balance between peeping at the magical make-up on the counters without attracting the attention of the vulture-like assistants. Dashing past the Bliss counter, I bounded onto the escalator, sailing up and away to credit card safety. For the moment at least. The bags were helpfully right where I stumbled off the escalator, but the number of bags crammed into this small space was completely overwhelming. Stalking around the counters and shelves, I evaded the gaze of the assistants for as long as I could before I braved a young brunette with approximately three hairs out of place. A relative slattern by Soho standards.
‘Hi, can I help you find something?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking for a bag,’ I nodded, trying not to sound like someone who really didn’t do this often, but at the same time not wanting to get fleeced out of my of entire wedding savings for a handbag. ‘Something I can use for everyday really, for carrying my laptop, my wallet, phone, stuff like that.’
‘OK.’ She began rocketing around the department, pulling out various bags of various sizes, all extraordinarily expensive, I was sure. ‘You’ll probably want leather if it’s for everyday. It’s the most durable material and it wears well. And you want room for your laptop …’ she paused, biting her full bottom lip and glancing around the shelves before pulling some more bags out from hidden drawers behind her counter. ‘Any favourite designers?’
‘Marc Jacobs?’ I offered, thinking back to yesterday’s induction into the fashion floor. It seemed to be the right answer because she smiled and finished off the collection of luxury leather in front of her with the most beautiful, beautiful bag I had ever laid eyes on. I reached out to stroke its buttery softness, the dark brown of the leather looked like milk chocolate and the subtle gold detailing winked at me.
‘Buy me,’ it whispered tantalizingly. ‘I complete you.’
The sales girl was making noises about updated classic satchel design, Italian leather and brass fixings but I was already working out how much I could ram in there and still wedge my arm through the strap.
‘How much?’ I asked, picking it up delicately. It was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Was it wrong that I felt more passion for this bag than I had felt in my and Mark’s bedroom for the last three years?
‘It’s $895.00,’ she said, sensing the commission. I figured she could smell a sale like a horse smells fear. ‘Plus tax.’
My shoddy internal exchange rate brought that out at more or less £500. I’d never ever spent more than thirty quid on a bag. But I needed it. I thought back to when Louisa and I went shopping for bridesmaid shoes in Harvey Nicks and reasoned with myself. If she could spend £400 on my shoes for one day (albeit guilt shoes, I realized now) I could invest £500 in a bag I would use for the rest of my life. I’d just use it all the time. For every occasion. Every single day.
‘Anything else?’ the girl piped up.
I smiled feverishly back at her. ‘I need a clutch.’
A thousand dollars down and two amazing handbags up, I sloped down Bloomingdale’s steps into the searing summer heat. I figured at £500 I had to get my money out of this bad boy by using it absolutely immediately, rolling my Next pleather wonder into as small a scrunchy ball and dropping it into my Big Brown Bag. Compared to midtown yesterday, Broadway was relatively quiet. A few tourists wandered around in combat shorts and red shoulders with digital cameras constantly clicking, while the beautiful and hip with no perceivable employment, swanned in and out of the shops, weaving around Mercer, Spring and Prince Streets, weighing down their skinny forearms with massive stiff paper bags. It took staring at these girls for less than a minute before I realized how starving I was. Luckily, this was New York City and Starbucks was never more than two minutes away. One quick muffin, I promised myself as I stumbled gratefully back into multinational air-conditioning, and then I’ll head back to the hotel.
My promises were short-lived. If the people watching outside Bloomingdale’s had been good, standing in the ten minute queue at Starbucks was like watching a David Attenborough documentary. I’d never seen such a mix of people. More skinny women ordering non-fat caffeine shots, businessmen holding meetings over blueberry scones, cute muso types intensely discussing the newest guitar band (and not even ordering coffee – rebels.) But the most popular customers were the men and women studiously ignoring the rest of the patrons and desperately tapping away on laptops, intermittently stopping to check their WiFi connections, sigh loudly and sip their huge drinks.
‘You can never get a fuckin’ seat in this fuckin’ place,’ breathed the man behind me. ‘Fuckin’ bloggers.’
I turned and smiled politely even though I didn’t know what he was talking about, assuming he was addressing me. He stared back at me as if I were mentally ill.
‘Bloggers?’ I enquired, suddenly feeling very English as he stared me down.
‘What?’ he snapped. Apparently, he was not talking to me.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, turning away, looking for a rock to crawl under.
‘You said something about bloggers, I thought you meant …’ and I let myself trail off with an intense stare into the pastry cabinet.
‘Oh,’ he said, still not exactly what you’d call friendly. ‘Just thinking out loud. You can never sit down in a Starbucks for all these cocksucking bloggers posting their whiny diatribes about how shitty their lives are. No one cares, people! Go find some real friends to talk to!’
At this point he was really shouting at the laptop brigade and I was really, really wishing I hadn’t encouraged the conversation.
‘Next?’
Saved by the coffee order.
I ordered my muffin and Americano to go and immediately hailed a cab. I’d taken the subway once today and my Marc Jacobs satchel really didn’t feel like slumming it.
‘The Union hotel, on Union Square,’ I said, settling back as we turned off Broadway. I watched carefully for street signs, trying to ignore further credit card destroying shopping opportunities. Down East Houston and then up the Bowery, or was it Fourth Avenue? I was confused but happy confused.
‘You on vacation?’ the cabbie yelled through the grid.
‘Yes,’ I called back, happily taking in the sights. ‘I am on vacation.’
‘Girl like you on your own?’ he asked. ‘Don’t get many girls on their own. Mainly get the packs of three or four doing the Sex and the City thing. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been down to Magnolia Bakery.’
Oh. Cupcakes! ‘I haven’t been there yet.’
‘Yeah, I don’t get it,’ he laughed. ‘They