Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (Shopaholic #2)

Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (Shopaholic #2) Page 64

“I don’t eat carbohydrates,” she says pleasantly. “But you go ahead. I’m sure it’s delicious!”

“No, it’s OK,” I say hastily. “I’ll just have the sea bass.”

God, how could I be so stupid? Of course Manhattanites don’t eat garlic bread.

“And to drink?” says the waiter.

“Erm…” I look around the table. “I don’t know. A sauvignon blanc, maybe? What does everyone else want?”

“Sounds good,” says Kent with a friendly smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Just some more Pellegrino for me,” she adds, and gestures to her tumbler.

“And me,” says Judd.

Pellegrino? They’re on Pellegrino?

“I’ll just have water too!” I say quickly. “I don’t need wine! It was just an idea. You know—”

“No!” says Kent. “You must have whatever you like!” She smiles at the waiter. “A bottle of the sauvignon blanc, please, for our guest.”

“Honestly—” I say, flushing red.

“Rebecca,” says Kent, lifting a hand with a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Oh great. Now she thinks I’m a complete alcoholic. She thinks I can’t survive one getting-to-know-you lunch without hitting the booze.

Well, never mind. It’s done now. And it’ll be OK. I’ll just drink one glass. One glass, and that’s it.

And that is honestly what I mean to do. Drink one glass and leave it at that.

But the trouble is, every time I finish my glass, a waiter comes along and fills it up again, and somehow I find myself drinking it. Besides which, it would look rather ungrateful to order a whole bottle of wine and leave it undrunk.

So the upshot is, by the time we’ve finished our food, I’m feeling quite… Well. I suppose one word might be drunk. Another might be pissed. But it’s not a problem, because we’re having a really good time, and I’m actually being really witty. Probably because I’ve relaxed a little. I’ve told them lots of funny stories about behind the scenes at Morning Coffee, and they’ve listened carefully and said it all sounds “quite fascinating.”

“Of course, you British are very different from us,” says Kent thoughtfully, as I finish telling her about the time Dave the cameraman arrived so pissed he keeled over in the middle of a shot, and got Emma picking her nose. God, that was funny. In fact, I can’t stop giggling, just remembering it.

“We just love your British sense of humor,” says Judd, and stares intently at me as though expecting a joke.

OK, quick. Think of something funny. British sense of humor. Erm… Fawlty Towers? Ab Fab?

“Don’t mention the war!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Sweetie darling.” I give a snort of laughter, and Judd and Kent exchange puzzled looks.

Just then, the coffee arrives. At least, I’m having coffee, Kent’s having English breakfast tea, and Judd’s having some weird herbal thing which he gave to the waiter to make.

“I adore tea,” says Kent, giving me a smile. “So calming. Now, Rebecca. In England, the custom is that you turn the pot three times clockwise to keep away the devil. Is that right? Or is it counterclockwise?”

Turn the pot? I’ve never heard of turning the bloody pot.

“Erm… let me remember.”

I screw my face up thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time I drank tea from a teapot. But the only image that comes to me is of Suze dunking a teabag in a mug while she tears a KitKat open with her teeth.

“I think it’s counterclockwise,” I say at last. “Because of the old saying, ‘The devil he creeps around the clock… but never backward he will go.’ ”

What the hell am I talking about? Why have I suddenly put on a Scottish accent?

“Fascinating!” says Kent, taking a sip of tea. “I adore all these quaint old British customs. Do you know any others?”

“Absolutely!” I say brightly. “I know loads!”

Stop it, Becky. Just stop now.

“Like, we have a very old custom of… of… ‘turning the tea cake.’ ”

“Really?” says Kent. “I’ve never heard of that one.”

“Oh yes,” I say confidently. “What happens is, you take your tea cake…” I grab a bread roll from a passing waiter. “And you… rotate it above your head like so… and you… you say a little rhyme…”

Crumbs are starting to fall on my head, and I can’t think of anything to rhyme with tea cake, so I put my bread roll down and take a sip of coffee. “They do it in Cornwall,” I add.