I take the card from her, and as I read, my skin starts to prickle with excitement.

SAMPLE SALE

Designer clothes, 50–70% off

Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garcons, Gucci

Bags, shoes, hosiery, 40–60% off

Prada, Fendi, Lagerfeld

‘Is this for real?’ I breathe at last, looking up. ‘I mean, could... could I go to it?’

‘Oh yuh,’ says the girl. ‘It’s for real. But it’ll only last a day.’

‘A day?’ My heart starts to thump in panic. ‘Just one day?’

‘One day,’ affirms the girl solemnly. I glance at the other girls, and they’re nodding in agreement.

‘Sample sales come without much warning,’ explains one.

‘They can be anywhere. They just appear overnight.’

‘Then they’re gone. Vanished.’

‘And you just have to wait for the next one.’

I look from face to face, utterly mesmerized. I feel like an explorer learning about some mysterious nomadic tribe.

‘So you wanna catch this one today,’ says the girl in the leather jacket, tapping the card and bringing me back to life, ‘you’d better hurry.’

I have never moved as fast as I do out of that shop. Clutching my Saks Fifth Avenue carrier, I hail a taxi, breathlessly read out the address on the card, and sink back into my seat.

I have no idea where we’re heading or what famous landmarks we’re passing – but I don’t care. As long as there are designer clothes on sale, then that’s all I need to know.

We come to a stop, and I pay the driver, making sure I tip him about 50 per cent so he doesn’t think I’m some stingy English tourist – and, heart thumping, I get out. And I have to admit, on first impressions, things are not promising. I’m in a street full of rather uninspiring shop fronts and office blocks. On the card it said the sample sale was at 405, but when I follow the numbers along the road, 405 turns out to be just another office building. Am I in the wrong place altogether? I walk along the pavement for a little bit, peering up at the buildings – but there are no clues. I don’t even know which district I’m in.

Suddenly I feel deflated and rather stupid. I was supposed to be going on a nice organized walking tour today – and what have I done instead? I’ve gone rushing off to some strange part of the city, where I’ll probably get mugged any minute. In fact, the whole thing was probably a scam, I think morosely. I mean, honestly. Designer clothes at 70 per cent discount? I should have realized it was far too good to be–

Hang on. Just... hang on a minute.

Another taxi is pulling up, and a girl in a Miu Miu dress is getting out. She consults a piece of paper, walks briskly along the pavement, and disappears inside the door of 405. A moment later, two more girls appear along the street – and as I watch, they go inside, too.

Maybe this is the right place.

I push open the glass doors, walk into a shabby foyer furnished with plastic chairs, and nod nervously at the concierge sitting at the desk.

‘Erm... excuse me,’ I say politely. ‘I was looking for the–’

‘Twelfth floor,’ he says in a bored voice. ‘Elevators are in the rear.’

I hurry towards the back of the foyer, summon one of the rather elderly lifts and press 12. Slowly and creakily the lift rises – and I begin to hear a kind of faint babble, rising in volume as I get nearer. The lift pings and the doors open and... Oh my God. Is this the queue?

A line of girls is snaking back from a door at the end of the corridor. They’re pressing forwards, and all have the same urgent look in their eyes. Every so often somebody pushes their way out of the door, holding a carrier bag – and about three girls push their way in. Then, just as I join the end of the line, there’s a rattling sound, and a woman opens up a door, a few yards behind me.

‘Another entrance this way,’ she calls. ‘Come this way!’

In front of me, a whole line of heads whips round. There’s a collective intake of breath – and then it’s like a tidal wave of girls, all heading towards me. I find myself running towards the door, just to avoid being knocked down – and suddenly I’m in the middle of the room, slightly shaken, as everybody else peels off and heads for the rails.

I look around, trying to get my bearings. There are rails and rails of clothes, tables covered in bags and shoes and scarves and girls sorting through them. I can spot Ralph Lauren knitwear... a rail full of fabulous coats... there’s a stack of Prada bags... I mean, this is like a dream come true!

Conversation is high-pitched and excited, and as I look around, I can hear snippets floating around.

‘I have to have it,’ a girl is saying, holding up a coat against herself. ‘I just have to have it.’

‘OK, what I’m going to do is, I’m just going to put the $450 I spent today on to my mortgage,’ another girl is saying to her friend as they walk out, laden with bags. ‘I mean, what’s $450 over thirty years?’

‘One hundred per cent cashmere!’ someone else is exclaiming. ‘Did you see this? It’s only $50! I’m going to take three.’

I look around the bright, buzzing room, at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new stuff. And I feel a sudden warmth; an overwhelming realization. These are my people. This is where I belong. I’ve found my homeland.

Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons on a complete high. I’m laden with carrier bags, and I can’t tell you what unbelievable bargains I picked up. A fantastic buttermilk leather coat, which is a teeny bit tight but I’m sure I’ll soon lose a couple of pounds. (And anyway, leather stretches.) Plus a really gorgeous printed chiffon top, and some silver shoes, and a purse! And the whole lot only came to $500!