Extract 7

…I’ll go to the Guggenheim right now. Right this minute. Just as soon as I’ve bought my makeup and got my free gift.

I stuff my basket full of beauty goodies, hurry up to the checkout, and sign the credit slip without even looking at it, then go out to the crowded street. Right. It’s 3.30, which gives me plenty of time to get up there and immerse myself in some culture. Excellent, I’m really looking forward to it, actually.

I’m standing on the edge of the pavement, holding out my hand for a taxi, when I spot a gorgeous, glowing shop called Kate’s Paperie. Without quite meaning to, I let my hand drop, and start edging slowly towards the window. Just look at that. Look at that display of marbled wrapping paper. And that decoupage box. And that amazing beaded ribbon.

OK, what I’ll do is, I’ll just pop in and have a quick look. Just for five minutes. And then I’ll go to the Guggenheim.

I push the door open and walk slowly around, marvelling at the arrangements of beautiful wrapping paper adorned with dried flowers, raffia and bows, the photograph albums, the boxes of exquisite writing paper... And oh God, just look at the greetings cards!

You see, this is it. This is why New York is so great. They don’t just have boring old cards saying Happy Birthday. They have handmade creations with twinkly flowers and witty collages, saying things like ‘Con­gratulations on adopting twins!’ and ‘So sad to hear you broke up!’

I walk up and down, utterly dazzled by the array. I just have to have some of these. Like this fantastic pop-up castle, with the flag reading ‘I love your re­modeled home!’ I mean, I don’t actually know anyone who’s remodelling their home, but I can always keep it until Mum decides to repaper the hall. And this one covered in fake grass, saying ‘To a smashing tennis coach with thanks’. Because I’m planning to have some tennis lessons next summer, and I’ll want to thank my coach, won’t I?

I scoop up a few more, and then move on to the invitation rack. And they’re even better! Instead of just saying ‘Party’ they say things like ‘We’re meeting at the club for brunch!’ and ‘Come join us for an informal pizza!’

You know, I think I should buy some of those. It would be short-sighted not to. I mean, Suze and I might easily hold a pizza party, mightn’t we? And we’ll never find invitations like this in Britain. They’re so sweet, with glittery little pizza slices all the way down the sides. I carefully put ten boxes of invitations in my basket, along with all my lovely cards, and a few sheets of candy-striped wrapping paper, which I just can’t resist, then head to the checkout. As the assistant scans everything through, I look around the shop again, wondering if I’ve missed anything – and it’s only when she announces the total that I look up in slight shock. That much? Just for a few cards?

For a moment I wonder whether I really do need them all. Like the card saying ‘Happy Hanukkah, Boss!’

But then – they’re bound to come in useful one day, aren’t they? And if I’m to live in New York, I’m going to have to get used to sending expensive cards the whole time, so really, this is a form of acclimatization.

Plus, what’s the point of having a nice new credit card limit and not using it? Exactly. And I can put it all down on my budget as ‘unavoidable business expenses’.

As I sign my slip, I notice a girl in jeans and a hat hovering behind a display of business cards, who looks strangely familiar. I peer at her curiously – and then realize where I recognize her from.

‘Hello,’ I say, giving her a friendly smile. ‘Didn’t I see you at the sample sale yesterday? Did you find any bargains?’

But instead of replying, she quickly turns away. Hurrying out of the shop, she bumps into someone and mutters ‘Sorry’. And to my astonishment, she’s got a British accent. Well, that’s bloody unfriendly, isn’t it? Ignoring a compatriot on foreign soil. God, no wonder people say the British are aloof.

Right. I really am going to go to the Guggenheim now. As I come out of Kate’s Paperie, I realize I don’t know which way I should be facing to catch a cab, and I stand still for a moment, wondering which way is north. Something flashes brightly across the street, and I screw up my face, wondering if it’s going to rain. But the sky is clear, and nobody else seems to have noticed it. Maybe it’s one of those New York things, like steam coming up from the pavement.

Anyway. Concentrate. Guggenheim.

‘Excuse me?’ I say to a woman walking past. ‘Which way is the Guggenheim?’

‘Down the street,’ she says, jerking her thumb.

‘Right,’ I say, confused. ‘Thanks.'’

That can’t be right. I thought the Guggenheim was miles away from here, by Central Park. How can it be down the street? She must be a foreigner. I’ll ask somebody else.

Except they all walk so bloody fast, it’s hard to get anyone’s attention.

‘Hey,’ I say, practically grabbing the arm of a man in a suit. ‘For the Guggenheim–’

‘Right there,’ he says, nodding his head, and hurries off.

What on earth are they all talking about? I’m sure Kent said that the Guggenheim was right up near the... near the...

Hang on a minute.

I stop dead in the street, staring in astonishment.

I don’t believe it. There it is! There’s a sign hanging up ahead of me – and it says GUGGENHEIM SOHO, as large as life.

What’s going on? Has the Guggenheim moved? Are there two Guggenheims?

As I walk towards the doors, I see that this place looks quite small for a museum – so maybe it’s not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it’s some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Britain and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo?

Guggenheim SoHo. That sounds so cool!

Cautiously I push the door open – and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and places to sit down and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.

You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don’t feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.

As I’m gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually,

‘How much is it?’

I’m about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, ‘That’s what I always want to know, too!’ when to my astonishment the man reaches for it, and turns it over. And there’s a price label fixed onto the back!

A price label in a museum! This place is perfect! Finally, some forward-thinking person has agreed with me that people don’t want to just look at art – they want to know how much it is, too. I'm going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.

You know, now that I look around properly, all the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that... that box of pencils.

How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it’s installation art, like thingummy girl’s bed. I walk over to have a closer look – and there’s something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life... I lean close and find myself reading the words ‘Guggenheim Museum Store’.

What?

Is this a–

I lift my head and look around, bewildered.

Am I in a shop?

Now I start noticing things I hadn’t seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room.

And there’s somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.

Oh God.

Now I feel really stupid. How could I have not recognized a shop? But... this makes less and less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own? With no museum attached?

‘Excuse me,’ I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name-badge. ‘Can I just check – this is a shop?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ says the boy politely. ‘This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.’

‘And where’s the actual Guggenheim Museum?’

‘Way up by the park.’

‘Right. OK.’ I look at him in confusion. ‘So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff – and no-one minds whether you’ve been to the museum or not? I mean, you don’t have to show your ticket or anything?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘So you don’t have to look at the art at all? You can just shop?’ My voice rises in delight. ‘This city just gets better and better! It’s perfect!’ I see the boy’s shocked expression and quickly add, ‘I mean, obviously I do want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just... you know. Checking.’

‘If you’re interested in visiting the museum,’ says the boy, ‘I can call you a cab. Did you want to pay a visit?’

‘Erm...’

Now, let’s just think for a moment. Let’s not make any hasty decisions.

‘Erm... I’m not sure,’ I say carefully. ‘Could you just give me a minute?’

‘Sure,’ says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.

OK, here’s the thing. I mean, obviously I could go to the Guggenheim. I could get in a cab, and whiz up to wherever it is, and spend all afternoon looking at pieces of art.

Or else... I could just buy a book about the Guggenheim... and spend the rest of the afternoon shopping.

Because the thing is, do you actually need to see a piece of art in the flesh to appreciate it? Of course you don’t. And in a way, flicking through a book would be better than trekking round lots of galleries – because I’m bound to cover more ground more quickly and actually learn far more.

Besides, what they have in this shop is art, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve taken in some pretty good culture already. Exactly.

And it’s not as if I rush out of the shop. I stay there for at least ten minutes, browsing through the literature and soaking up the cultured atmosphere. In the end I buy a big heavy book which I will give to Luke, plus a really cool mug for Suze, some pencils and a calendar for my mum.

Excellent. Now I can really go shopping! As I walk off, I feel all liberated and happy, as though I’ve been given a surprise day off school. I head down Broadway and turn off on one of the side roads, stepping past stalls selling fake handbags and colourful hair accessories, and a guy playing the guitar not very well. Soon I find myself wandering down a gorgeous little cobbled street, and then down another. On either side there are big old red buildings with fire escapes running up and down them, and trees planted in the pavements, and the atmosphere is suddenly a lot more laid back than it was on Broadway. You know, I could definitely get used to living here. No problem.

And oh God, the shops! Each one is more inviting than the next. One is full of painted velvet dresses hanging on pieces of antique furniture. Another has walls painted to look like clouds, racks of fluffy frou-frou party dresses and bowls of sweets every­where. Another is all black and while and art deco, like a Fred Astaire movie. And just look at this one!

I stop on the pavement and stare open-mouthed at a mannequin wearing nothing but a transparent plastic shirt, which has a goldfish swimming about in the pocket. That has to be the most amazing piece of clothing I’ve ever seen.

You know – I’ve always secretly wanted to wear a piece of real avant-garde fashion. I mean, God, how cool would it be to have some cutting edge piece of clothing and telling everyone you bought it in SoHo. At least... Am I still in SoHo? Maybe this is NoLita. Or... NoHo? SoLita? To be honest, I’m not sure where I am by now, and I don’t want to look at my map in case everyone thinks I’m a tourist.

Anyway, wherever it is, I don’t care. I’m going in.

I push open the heavy door and walk into the shop, which is completely empty apart from a smell of incense and some strange, booming music. I walk up to a rail and, trying to look nonchalant, begin to finger the clothes. God, this stuff is way out. There’s a pair of trousers about ten feet long, and a plain white shirt with a plastic hood, and a skirt made out of corduroy and newspaper, which is quite nice – but what happens when it rains?

‘Hello,’ says a guy coming up. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and very tight trousers – completely silver apart from the crotch, which is denim, and very... Well. Prominent.

‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound as cool as possible and not look at his crotch.

‘How are you today?’

‘Fine, thanks!’

‘Would you like to try anything?’

Come on, Becky. Don’t be a wimp. Choose some­thing.

‘Erm… yes. This!’ I say, and grab for a purple jumper with a funnel neck which seems quite nice. ‘This one, please.’ And I follow him to the back, where the fitting cubicle is made out of sheets of zinc.

It’s only as I’m taking the jumper off the hangers that I see it has two funnel necks. In fact, it looks a bit like the jumper my granny once gave Dad for Christmas.

‘Excuse me?’ I say, poking my head out of the cubicle. ‘This jumper’s got... it’s got two neck-holes.’ I give a little laugh, and the guy stares at me blankly, as though I’m subnormal.

‘It’s supposed to,’ he says. ‘That’s the look.’

‘Oh, right!’ I say at once. ‘Of course.’ And I dive back into the cubicle.

I don’t dare ask him which neck-hole you’re supposed to put your head in, so I struggle into the first one – and that looks terrible. I try the other one – and that looks terrible, too.

‘Are you OK?’ says the guy from outside the cubicle, and I feel my cheeks flame with colour. I can’t admit I don’t know how to put it on.

‘I’m... fine,’ I say in a strangled voice.

‘Would you like to have a look out here?’

‘OK!’ I say, my voice a squeak.

Oh God. My cheeks are all flushed, and my hair’s standing on end from pushing my head through funnel necks. Hesitantly I push open the door of the cubicle, and look at myself in the big mirror opposite. And I’ve never looked more stupid in my life.

‘It’s a fantastic piece of knitwear,’ says the guy, folding his arms and staring at me. ‘Quite unique.’

‘Erm... absolutely,’ I say after a pause. ‘It’s very interesting.’ I tug awkwardly at my sleeve and try to ignore the fact that I look as though I’m missing a head.

‘You look fabulous in it,’ says the guy. ‘Completely fabulous.’

He sounds so convinced, I peer at my reflection again. And you know – maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t look so bad.

‘Madonna has it in three colours,’ says the guy, and lowers his voice. ‘But between you and me, she can’t quite pull it off.’