Jane Sigaloff - Lost and Found

‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’

‘Don’t go changing…’

It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.

Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’

Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.

Ben sat himself down in a leather armchair identical to the one he had just vacated a few blocks east and, arranging the expanding collection of shopping bags at his feet, exchanged an empathetic smile with the men sitting on either side of him.

He’d done almost all his clothes-shopping in a couple of stores on Lexington straight after lunch, and yet this was their third branch of Banana Republic in two hours. Ali assured him this was their flagship, the mother ship, the Mecca, the ultimate collection, and until they opened a branch in London he’d just have to be patient. Reaching for the GQ magazine that he was using as a disguise, he settled into his seat and selected one of the most recent entries.

Wednesday March 21st

Furious. Richard turned up at hotel this morning all smiles for final meetings. Not even a call or e-mail first. Wanker. He claims he is relationship-building. Yadda-yadda-yadda. If he’s waiting for me to screw up it’s not going to happen.

Must keep calm. Home tomorrow. And, small consolation, did pick up killer DKNY trouser suit yesterday. Simple lines. Classic cut. Great fabric. Always feel unassailable in NYC. Energy levels infectious and people no ruder than in London. Need green card. Or American firm to sponsor me. Or American husband—note: George Clooney has previously shown a healthy degree of interest in English girls.

Nick still periodically chasing EJ. Am proud to report she is resisting and has no shortage of alternative offers. Own daily routine feeling bit flat by comparison. Busy enough socially, but is increasingly girlie nights and am often sole singleton at dinner parties, expected to entertain with tales of the City so they can relive their dating days vicariously. Less random new people. Need new project. Most exciting thing to happen to me last week was new series of Friends on E4. And never have time to watch whole series. Know I will end up buying DVD and filing it, unopened, along with others. Scene change would be good. And it’s not like I’m going to give it all up and make jam.

Ben shook his head. These pseudo-feminists were their own worst enemies, believing they could eat men for breakfast when all they really wanted was a man to make it for them.

Sometimes I think I’d like to spend more time outside.

Personal trainer? Landscape gardener?

Landscape gardener? He was supposed to be the creative one, yet in his regular life and career crises he only ever came up with the traditional bar owner/teacher/doctor options.

Or at least do something that feels more tangible. I have good job. Good salary. Qualifications. Prospects. But sometimes wonder if I am too sensible—own worst enemy—but then maybe grass is always greener in a landscaped garden. But haven’t met any guys with longterm potential since I’ve been at 3L. Not that this is all about a man. Far from it.

‘Yeah, right.’ Ben stabbed the diary with his finger before turning the page. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with problems. He was talking to a magazine.

Could retrain. Teaching is tempting. Salary is not. But increasingly feel would like to make a difference, however small.

Need gym session. Not sure fast walking in semi-heels to Bloomingdales and back counts as exercise. Now Richard has suggested exercising corporate Amex over cocktails with clients in Bemelmans Bar at 6.30. Could just be a little late. Woman’s prerogative. Then again, probably not quite future partner prerogative. At least have new classic cocktail dress. Makes me feel fabulous, especially now upper arms are more toned. On the whole these NY boys are more attractive than their British counterparts, but sadly they rarely have any substance, any real spirit. As if their strength has been sapped by their sand-coloured Chinos.

Ben shook his head and looked down at his black round-neck jumper and Diesel jeans, irritated by her descent into cliché. Yup, all American men were dull and without style, and all British women only had sex in the missionary position. Maybe if she stepped out of the executive gene pool she’d have a bit more fun.

I think Bill likes me, though. Should make evening slightly less painful. And with a bit of a power flirt I imagine ‘just call me Harvey’ will be happy to agree to the fee proposal and recommended deal structure, just as long as Richard doesn’t interfere. Cocktails not such bad idea after all. Bugger. Just seen time. Instead of scribbling could at least have done a session on the stepper.

Never had American man. Maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong…

He wasn’t surprised there wasn’t a queue. Like she knew anything about the real world, locked away in her ivory office block. Smug, supercilious…and single.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Ali strutted over in an all black outfit, a bundle of tags swinging from her belt loops.

‘Hmm?’ Ben gave his sister the once-over and, still fuming, must have accidentally frowned.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Ben did his utmost to minimise the machinations of a lawyer in crisis and focus on his sister as she sashayed along an imaginary catwalk in front of him before coming to an abrupt, less glamorous halt.

‘Well, come on—spit it out. I didn’t bring you along to be polite.’

‘It’s all lovely.’

‘Fence-sitter. Now, let’s start again. Trousers?’

Ben refocused. ‘Aren’t they the same as the ones you tried in the last place?’

Ali’s subsequent sigh was tinged with exasperation. ‘No, the waistband is totally different and there are no back pockets on these.’

‘Of course.’ Amateur error. How could he have missed the waistband/pocket detail?

‘Well?’

‘They’re very nice. Great. Get them. How much?’

‘Flattering?’ Ali ignored the last question. How could you put a price on the perfect pair of black trousers?

‘Yup. Very.’ Ben tried not to stare at his sister’s bottom. ‘Seriously, I like the cut. Simple lines and, um, great fabric—classic.’ Ali’s eyes lit up. Ben knew he’d hit the jackpot. ‘Yup, definitely classic.’ Silently he thanked his anonymous tipster. When it came to women’s fashion, she was good.

‘Great. Thanks. Right, just a few more things to try and then we’ll stop for a coffee.’

‘What else do you need?’

‘A couple of sweaters, maybe a spring coat, a bag, a belt…’

Ali paused. Ben was getting the idea.

‘It’s not like I’ve got a list…’

Of course. The hunter-gatherer try-it-all-before-deciding approach to a new wardrobe.

‘…but I’ll know them when I see them.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Thanks for being so patient.’

‘No problem. Look, we’re here now—take your time, try anything you like…’

Ali cocked her head and studied her brother for a moment before strutting back to her cubicle. What about the ‘they do have shops in London’ line he usually came out with? She’d get to the bottom of it just as soon as she’d found the perfect pair of jeans, and maybe a couple of sweaters…

Suddenly, clearing her social plate for her first night home was seeming less sensible. EJ was out, Sophie was with a prospective client, and Gemma was as likely to be home on a Friday night as Cherie Blair was to have a number one single. Yet Sam was lingering in the office, afraid to face up to both her conscience and her empty fridge.