my bag rolling on the street around him. I pushed Alice to the safety of the pavement and stamped the brake on before turning to help Alex up to his feet, the two of us stumbling to safety right before the light changed, leaving my bag at the mercy of the traffic.
The strap had snapped.
The strap of my Marc Jacobs satchel, my first and only true bag love, had snapped clean in two.
Pushing my hair behind my ears, I looked right, then left, then right again, preparing to run out against the light to retrieve my poor bag as it sat waiting patiently for me in the middle of the road.
Until a taxi came tearing around the corner and ran right over it.
‘My bag,’ I gasped.
‘My ankle,’ Alex moaned.
‘Waah,’ Alice added. She was absolutely fine but understandably wanted to be part of the excitement.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked my husband as I tried not to cry. I was worried about him, of course, but he was clearly in one piece and this was my bag. My precious, beautiful, wonderful bag. Unable to tear my eyes away from the carnage, I choked back a sob as I saw it lying there in the middle of the road, flat as a pancake, haemorrhaging tampons, breast pads, loose change and tubes of lip balms that had rolled away from the scene of the crime and into the gutter.
‘I don’t think anything is broken but my ankle does not feel good,’ Alex said, wincing as he touched his leg. The fall had torn his paper-thin vintage jeans and there was a nasty gash on his knee. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘My bag broke,’ I said, the simplicity of the statement not nearly covering the enormity of what had just happened. A bus hurtled down the street towards the victim and this time I had to look away. Rest in peace, little bag. ‘We should go to the hospital, you’ve got to get it looked at.’
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted before howling in pain the second he tried to put weight on his left foot. ‘I take it back, I’m not fine. ER it is.’
‘Right, yes, let’s do that,’ I nodded before realizing the light had changed again. ‘Just a sec.’
I dashed into the crosswalk, scooping up my flattened satchel, smashed phone and as many of my other belongings as I could. My keys and wallet seemed to have survived unscathed but everything else was a goner. I couldn’t even look at the packet of salt and vinegar Squares that were scattered all over the street. My last bag of them as well.
‘Don’t be upset,’ Alex said, leaning against the pushchair and holding out a hand for the wreckage of my bag. ‘I’ll bet I can fix it.’
‘We should fix you first,’ I said, wiping away a tear as I cradled my first bag baby in my arms. My first human baby was no longer crying but looked understandably confused by what was going on. One day you will understand, I thought sadly, but I hope I will be able to spare you this pain. ‘There’s that walk-in clinic on 5th Avenue, it’s closer than the hospital.’
‘You’re going to be late for your meeting, go, I’ll be OK.’ Alex hopped along using Alice’s pushchair as a makeshift crutch. I shoved the remains of my bag into the shelf under her seat and gave him an unconvinced once-over.
‘Yeah, I don’t think so,’ I told him, glancing down at the open wound on his knee. ‘They can wait ten minutes. I’d prefer to know you didn’t bleed out on the way if it’s all the same to you.’
With half a smile on his even paler than usual face, Alex rested one arm around my shoulders, keeping the other hand on the handle of the pushchair while Alice sang happily to herself, entirely unmoved by the drama unfolding around her.
‘Angela Clark,’ Alex said, hobbling down the street, very, very slowly. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’
What did I do to deserve this? I replied silently as I spotted the puff from my lost-forever Chanel powder compact, blown up into the air by another passing car. It certainly felt like punishment for something but – oh, wait a minute.
‘This isn’t exactly the time for it,’ I said, sliding my arm around my husband’s waist and staring up at the sky. Someone up there was taking the piss. ‘But when you get home, if you could add Perry Dickson to the guest list for the show, that would be grand.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I called, emerging out of the lifts at Besson forty minutes later. ‘Minor emergency, crisis averted.’
Cici, Kanako and the rest of the editors were sitting around the crystal conference table. One by one, they each turned to look at me, all of them with the same expression on their faces.
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