open my mouth to tell her that I’ve never been shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, but then think better of it.
‘Two: watch.’ She pauses. ‘Rolex or Cartier are both excellent.’
‘What about Swatch?’ I ask, glancing at my own. It’s bright yellow plastic and I’ve had it for ever.
‘A Swatch is a four-storey walk-up in Queens,’ she warns darkly.
‘Oh, right.’ I nod and quickly cover mine with my sleeve.
‘Three: shoes.’ She folds her arms and fixes me with a beady eye. ‘What shoes did your last boyfriend wear?’
Oh-oh.
‘Crocs,’ I venture gingerly.
Magda looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. ‘The plastic gardening shoes? With the holes?’
I feel my cheeks redden with shame. And I wasn’t even the one wearing them.
‘They must be hand-stitched. Leather. And Italian.’
I don’t think I’ve ever even met anyone who wears hand-stitched Italian leather shoes. Well, apart from Rupert, but he’s gay. Hence his love affair with Pat Butcher.
‘What about love?’ I volunteer. ‘Shouldn’t that be on the checklist?’
‘Trust me, if you find a man with all three, you will fall in love with him,’ she instructs, and reaches towards a painting hanging on the wall. ‘OK, now help me. We need to pack these quickly. He wants them delivering today.’
‘Today?’ I glance at all the packing boxes, my earlier excitement deflating slightly. ‘Can’t he wait until tomorrow?’ I feel a tweak of irritation. Who does this guy think he is, coming in here with his black American Express card, thinking he owns the place?
I glance at our now almost empty walls. Saying that, I suppose he kind of does.
Unknown
‘And I want you to go with the delivery and make sure it...
Suddenly it registers. She’s trying to matchmake.
‘Oh, no, Magda—’ I begin protesting, but she doesn’t let me finish.
‘Number four: wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one.’ Her eyes twinkle mischievously, and looking very pleased with herself indeed, she passes me a roll of bubble wrap.
Chapter Six
By the end of the afternoon all the paintings have been carefully packaged and are being loaded into a truck for delivery. As the last wooden crate disappears into the back of the truck, Magda turns to me.
‘So the doorman will sign for the paintings, but they are to be delivered to the customer’s penthouse. You must wait with them until the customer arrives. For insurance purposes, you understand?’
‘But if someone’s already signed, then surely—’
Magda silences me with an outstretched palm. ‘You must wait,’ she repeats in a tone that’s non-negotiable.
I fall silent. I know there’s no point trying to reason. She’s determined to matchmake, I muse, reluctantly climbing into the front seat of the truck alongside the driver. And after her son, Daniel, I’m under no illusions.
‘Y’all set?’
A thick Queens accent interrupts my spiral downwards into general gloom about being single, nudging thirty and at the mercy of well-meaning friends, relatives and now my boss wanting to try to se € to try ^t me up with anything that’s got a penis and a heartbeat.
I glance up.
I feel my spirits lift. I’ve been so distracted I hadn’t noticed my driver until now, but he’s actually really cute. He’s got a shaved head, dark brown eyes and the whitest teeth. In fact, they’re so white they look almost luminous against his dark skin. And look at those arms! My eyes flick to biceps that are bulging out of his T-shirt like two huge watermelons as he grips the steering wheel. Crikey, I don’t think I’ve ever seen arms like that in real life. They look like he’s stolen them from Rambo, or Rocky, or one of those Stallone films, and he’s got this amazing tattoo of a dragon.
Shit, I’m staring.
‘Erm, yes . . . all set.’ I smile brightly.
‘Loozy.’
I snap back to see Magda at my side window, an expression of disapproval on her face. Without thinking I glance at the driver’s feet. He’s wearing Nikes.
Well, so what? I’m not looking for a husband, I think indignantly, peeking at his empty wrist and noticing he’s not wearing a watch. Or anyone else’s, I realise, before noticing he is wearing a wedding ring.
Bang goes my little crush.
‘And remember to call me,’ she instructs. ‘I want to know everything got there safely.’
‘I will,’ I reply dutifully, as the driver turns on the ignition.
‘And make sure—’
Thankfully her voice is drowned out as the engine fires up noisily.
Waving goodbye as the truck pulls away, I watch her figure getting smaller and smaller in the side mirror, and for the first time today I allow myself to