The First Lady. I mean, it sounds so much more impressive than “prime minister’s wife.”

“God, just think, Luke,” I say dreamily. “In a few weeks’ time, this will be our home city. We’ll be real New Yorkers!”

I’ll have to buy a few more black things before then, I find myself thinking. Everyone here seems to wear black…

“Becky—” says Luke. He puts down his paper — and suddenly he looks rather grave. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. Everything’s been such a rush, I haven’t had a chance — but it’s something I really think you need to hear.”

“OK,” I say apprehensively. “What is it?”

“It’s a big step, moving to a new city, especially a city as extreme as New York. It’s not the same as London…”

“I know,” I nod. “You have to have your nails done.”

Luke gives a puzzled frown before carrying on: “I’ve been here many times — and even I find it overwhelming at times. The sheer pressure and pace of life here is, frankly, on another level from London.”

“Right. So — what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think you should take it slow. Don’t expect to fit in straight away. You may well find it a bit of a shock to begin with.”

I stare at him, discomfited.

“Don’t you think I’ll be able to stand the pace?”

“I’m not saying that,” says Luke. “I’m just saying — get to know the city gradually. Get the feel of it; see if you can really see yourself living here. You may hate it! You may decide you can’t possibly move here. Of course, I very much hope you don’t — but it’s worth keeping an open mind.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “I see.”

“So just see how today goes — and we’ll talk some more this evening. OK?”

“OK,” I say, and drain my coffee thoughtfully.


I’ll show Luke I can fit into this city. I’ll show him I can be a true New Yorker. I’ll go to the gym, and then I’ll eat a bagel, and then I’ll… shoot someone, maybe?

Or maybe just the gym will be enough.

I’m actually quite looking forward to doing a workout, because I bought this fab DKNY exercise outfit in the sales last year, and this is the first time I’ve had the chance to wear it! I did mean to join a gym, in fact I even went and got a registration pack from Holmes Place in Fulham. But then I read this really interesting article which said you could lose loads of weight just by fidgeting. Just by twitching your fingers and stuff! So I thought I’d go for that method instead, and spend the money I saved on a new dress.

But it’s not that I don’t like exercise or anything. And if I’m going to live in New York, I’ll have to go to the gym every day. I mean, it’s the law or something. So this is a good way to acclimatize.

As I reach the entrance to the fitness center I glance at my reflection — and I’m secretly quite impressed. They say people in New York are all pencil thin and fit, don’t they? But I reckon I look much fitter than some of these characters. I mean, look at that balding guy over there in the gray T-shirt. He looks like he’s never been near a gym in his life!

“Hi there,” says a voice. I look up and see a muscular guy in trendy black Lycra coming toward me. “I’m Tony. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, and casually do a little hamstring stretch. (At least, I think it’s my hamstring. The one in your leg.) “Just here for a workout.”

Nonchalantly I swap legs, clasp my hands, and stretch my arms out in front of me. I can see my reflection on the other side of the room — and though I say it myself, I look pretty bloody cool.

“Do you exercise regularly?” asks Tony.

“Not in a gym,” I say, reaching down to touch my toes — then changing my mind halfway down and resting my hands on my knees. “But I walk a lot.”

“Great!” says Tony. “On a treadmill? Or cross-country?”

“Round the shops, mostly.”

“OK…” he says doubtfully.

“But I’m often holding quite heavy things,” I explain. “You know, carrier bags and stuff.”

“Right…” says Tony, not looking that convinced. “Well… would you like me to show you how the machines work?”

“It’s all right,” I say confidently. “I’ll be fine.”

Honestly, I can’t be bothered listening to him explain every single machine and how many settings it has. I mean, I’m not a moron, am I? I take a towel from the pile, drape it around my neck, and head off toward a running machine, which should be fairly simple. I step up onto the treadmill and survey the buttons in front of me. A panel is flashing the word “time” and after some thought I enter “40 minutes,” which sounds about right. I mean, that’s how long you’d go on a walk for, isn’t it? It flashes “program” and after scrolling down the choices I select “Everest,” which sounds much more interesting than “hill walk.” Then it flashes “level.” Hmm. Level. I look around for some advice — but Tony is nowhere to be seen.

The balding guy is getting onto the treadmill next to mine, and I lean over.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Which level do you think I should choose?”

“That depends,” says the guy. “How fit are you?”

“Well,” I say, smiling modestly. “You know…”

“I’m going for level 5, if it’s any help,” says the guy, briskly punching at his machine.

“OK,” I say. “Thanks!”

Well, if he’s level 5, I must be at least level 7. I mean, frankly, look at him — and look at me.

I reach up to the machine and punch in “7”—then press “start.” The treadmill starts moving, and I start walking. And this is really pleasant! I really should go to the gym more often. Or, in fact, join a gym.

But it just shows, even if you don’t work out, you can still have a level of natural baseline fitness. Because this is causing me absolutely no problems at all. In fact, it’s far too easy. I should have chosen level—

Hang on. The machine’s tilting upward. And it’s speeding up. I’m running to catch up with it.

Which is OK. I mean, this is the point, isn’t it? Having a nice healthy jog. Running along, panting a little, but that just means my heart is working. Which is perfect. Just as long as it doesn’t get any—

It’s tilting again. And it’s getting faster. And faster.

I can’t do this. My face is red. My chest is hurting. I’m panting frenziedly, and clutching the sides of the machine. I can’t run this fast. I have to slow down a bit.

Feverishly I jab at the panel — but the treadmill keeps whirring round — and suddenly cranks up even higher. Oh no. Please, no.

“Time left: 38.00” flashes brightly on a panel in front of me. Thirty-eight more minutes?

I glance to my right — and the balding guy is sprinting easily along as though he’s running through a field of daisies. I want to ask him for help, but I can’t open my mouth. I can’t do anything except keep my legs moving as best I can.

But all of a sudden he glances in my direction — and his expression changes.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

He hastily punches at his machine, which grinds to a halt, then leaps down and jabs at mine.

The treadmill slows down, then comes to a rather abrupt standstill — and I collapse against one of the side bars, gasping for breath.

“Have some water,” says the man, handing me a cup.

“Th-thanks,” I say, and stagger down off the treadmill, still gasping. My lungs feel as if they’re about to burst, and when I glimpse my reflection opposite, my face is beet red.

“Maybe you should leave it for today,” says the man, gazing at me anxiously.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, maybe I will.” I take a swig of water, trying to get my breath back. “I think actually the trouble is, I’m not used to American machines.”

“Could be,” says the man, nodding. “They can be tricky. Of course, this one,” he adds, slapping it cheerfully, “was made in Germany.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes. Well, anyway. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” says the man — and as he gets back onto his treadmill I can see him smiling.


Oh God, that was really embarrassing. As I make my way, showered and changed, to the foyer of the hotel for the walking tour, I feel a little deflated. Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I won’t cope with the pace of New York. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, my moving here with him. I mean, if I can’t keep up with a treadmill, how am I going to keep up with a whole city?

A group of sightseers has already assembled — mostly much older than me and attired in a variety of sensible windbreakers and sneakers. They’re all listening to a young, enthusiastic man who’s saying something about the Statue of Liberty.

“Hi there!” he says, breaking off as I approach. “Are you here for the tour?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“And your name?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say, flushing a little as all the others turn to look at me. “I paid at the desk, earlier.”

“Well, hi, Rebecca!” says the man, ticking something off on his list. “I’m Christoph. Welcome to our group. Got your walking shoes on?” He looks down at my boots (bright purple, kitten heel, last year’s Bertie sale) and his cheery smile falters. “You realize this is a three-hour tour? All on foot?”

“Absolutely,” I say in surprise. “That’s why I put these boots on.”

“Right,” says Christoph after a pause. “Well — OK.” He looks around. “I think that’s it, so let’s start our tour!”

He leads the way out of the hotel, onto Fifty-seventh Street. It’s a wide and busy street, with canopied entrances and trees planted at intervals and limousines pulling up in front of expensive-looking shops. As everyone else follows Christoph briskly along the pavement, I find myself walking slowly, staring upward. It’s an amazingly clear, fresh day — with almost blinding sunlight bouncing off the pavements and buildings — and as I look around I’m completely filled with awe. God, this city is an incredible place. I mean, obviously I knew that New York would be full of tall skyscrapers. But it’s only when you’re actually standing in the street, staring up at them, that you realize how… well, how huge they are. I gaze up at the tops of the buildings against the sky, until my neck is aching and I’m starting to feel dizzy. Then slowly my eyes wander down, floor by floor to shop-window level. And I find myself staring at two words. Prada and Shoes.