Ferragamo. Valentino. Dior. Versace. Prada.

As I venture down the street, my head swiveling from side to side, I feel giddy. It's complete culture shock. How long has it been since I've seen a shop that wasn't selling ethnic crafts and wooden beads? I mean . . . it's been months! I feel like I've been on some starvation cure, and now I'm gorging on tiramisu with double cream.

Just look at that amazing coat. Look at those shoes.

Where do I start? Where do I even- I can't move. I'm paralyzed in the middle of the street, like the donkey in that Aesop's fable who couldn't choose between the bales of hay. They'll find me in years to come, still frozen to the spot, clutching my credit card.

Suddenly my eyes fall on a display of leather belts and wallets in the window of a nearby boutique.

Leather. Luke's belt. This is what I'm here to buy. Focus.

I totter toward the shop and push open the door, still in a daze. At once I'm hit by the overwhelming smell of expensive leather. In fact, it's so strong it actually seems to clear my head.

The shop is amazing. It's carpeted in pale taupe, with softly lit display cabinets. I can see wallets, belts, bags, jackets. . . . I pause by a mannequin wearing the most amazing chocolate brown coat, all leather and satin. I stroke it fondly, then lift the price tag-and nearly faint.

But, of course, it's in lire. I smile in relief. No wonder it looks so- Oh no. It's euros now.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.

I gulp, and move away from the mannequin.

Which just proves that Dad was right all along-the single currency was a huge mistake. When I was thirteen I went on holiday to Rome with my parents-and the whole point about lire was, the prices looked like a lot but they weren't really. You could buy something for about a zillion lire-and in real life it cost about three quid! It was fantastic!

Plus, if you accidentally ended up buying a bottle of really expensive perfume, no one (i.e., your parents) could blame you, because, like Mum said, who on earth can divide numbers like that in their head?

As I start to look through a display of belts, a stocky middle-aged man comes out of a fitting room, chomping on a cigar and wearing an amazing black cashmere coat trimmed with leather. He's about fifty and very tanned, with close-cropped gray hair and piercing blue eyes. The only thing which doesn't look quite so good is his nose, which to be honest is a bit of a mishmash.

"Oy, Roberto," he says in a raspy voice.

He's Englis.h.!.+ His accent is weird, though. Kind of transatlantic meets c.o.c.kney.

A shop a.s.sistant in a black suit with angular black gla.s.ses comes hurrying out from the fitting room, holding a tape measure.

"Yes, Signor Temple?"

"How much cashmere is in this?" The stocky man smooths down the coat critically.

"Signore, this is one hundred percent cashmere."

"The best cashmere?" The stocky man lifts a warning finger. "I don't want you palming me off now. You know my motto. Only the best."

The guy in black gla.s.ses gives a little wince of dismay.

"Signore, we would not, er . . . palm you off."

The man gazes at himself in a mirror silently for a few seconds, then nods.

"Fair enough. I'll take three. One to London." He counts off on stubby fingers. "One to Switzerland. One to New York. Got it?"

The a.s.sistant in black gla.s.ses glances over at me, and I realize it's totally obvious I'm eavesdropping.

"Oh, hi!" I say quickly. "I'd like to buy this, please, and have it gift wrapped." I hold up the belt I've chosen.

"Silvia will help you." He gestures dismissively toward the woman at the till, then turns back to his customer.

I hand the belt over to Silvia and watch idly as she wraps it up in s.h.i.+ny bronze paper. I'm half admiring her deft ability with ribbon and half listening to Mr. Cashmere, who's now looking at a briefcase.

"Don't like the texture," he states. "Feels different. Something's wrong."

"We have changed our supplier recently. . . ." The black gla.s.ses guy is wringing his hands. "But it is a very fine leather, signore. . . ."

He trails off as Mr. Cashmere takes his cigar from his mouth and gives him a look.

"You're palming me off, Roberto," he says. "I pay good money, I want quality. What you'll do is make me up one using leather from the old supplier. Got it?"

He looks over, sees me watching, and winks.

"Best place for leather in the world, this. But don't take any of their c.r.a.p."

"I won't!" I beam back. "And I love that coat, by the way!"

"Very kind of you." He nods affably. "You an actress? Model?"

"Er . . . no. Neither."

"No matter." He waves his cigar.

"How will you pay, signorina?" Silvia interrupts us.

"Oh! Er . . . here you are."

As I hand over my Visa card I feel a glow of goodness in my heart. Buying presents for other people is so much more satisfying than buying for yourself! And this will take me up to my limit on my Visa card, so that's my shopping all finished for the day.

What shall I do next? Maybe I'll take in some culture. I could go and look at that famous painting the concierge was talking about.

I can hear a buzz of interest coming from the back of the shop and turn idly to see what's happening. A mirrored door to a stockroom is open, and a woman in a black suit is coming out, surrounded by a gaggle of eager a.s.sistants. What on earth is she holding? Why is everyone so- Then suddenly I catch a glimpse of what she's carrying. My heart stops. My skin starts to p.r.i.c.kle.

It can't be.

But it is. She's carrying an Angel bag.

Three.

IT'S AN ANGEL bag. In the flesh.

I thought they were all sold out everywhere. I thought they were totally impossible to get hold of.

The woman sets it down ceremoniously on a creamy suede pedestal and stands back to admire it. The whole shop has fallen silent. It's like a member of the royal family has arrived. Or a movie star.

I'm transfixed.

It's stunning. It's totally stunning. The calfskin looks as soft as b.u.t.ter. The handpainted angel is all in delicate shades of aquamarine. And underneath is the name Dante written in diamante.

My legs are all wobbly and my hands feel sweaty. This is better than when we saw the white tigers in Bengal. I mean, let's face it. Angel bags are probably rarer than white tigers.

And there's one in front of my nose.

I could just buy it flashes through my brain. I could buy it!

"Miss? Signorina? Can you hear me?" A voice pierces my thoughts, and I realize Silvia at the till is trying to get my attention.

"Oh," I say, fl.u.s.tered. "Yes." I pick up the pen and scribble any old signature. "So . . . is that a real Angel bag?"

"Yes, it is," she says in a smug, bored tone, like a bouncer who knows the band personally and is used to dealing with besotted groupies.

"How much . . ." I swallow. "How much is it?"

"Two thousand euros."

"Right." I nod.

Two thousand euros. For a bag.

But if I had an Angel bag I wouldn't need to buy any new clothes. Ever. Who needs a new skirt when you have the hippest bag in town?

I don't care how much it is. I have to have it.

"I'd like to buy it, please," I say in a rush.

There's a stunned silence around the shop-then all the a.s.sistants burst into peals of laughter.

"You cannot buy the bag," says Silvia pityingly. "There is a waiting list."

Oh. A waiting list. Of course there would be a waiting list. I'm an idiot.

"Do you want to join the list?" she asks as she hands my Visa card back.

OK, let's be sensible. I'm not really going to go on a waiting list in Milan. I mean, for a start, how would I pick it up? I'd have to get them to FedEx it. Or come over specially, or- "Yes," I hear my own voice saying. "Yes, please."

After I write down my details, Silvia pops the form in a drawer. "We will call you when one is available."

"And . . . when might that be?" I try not to sound too anxious.

"I cannot say." She shrugs.

"How many people are ahead of me on the list?"

"We do not disclose such details."

"Right."

I feel a tiny dart of frustration. I mean, there it is. There's the bag, a few feet away from me . . . and I can't have it.

Never mind. I'm on the list. There's nothing more I can do.

I pick up the carrier bag containing Luke's belt and slowly walk away, pausing by the Angel bag. G.o.d, it's heart-stopping. The coolest, most beautiful bag in the world.

I'm suddenly struck by an idea.

"I was just wondering," I say, hurrying back to the till. "Do you know if everyone on the waiting list actually wants an Angel bag?"

"They are on the list." Silvia says it as though she's speaking to a total moron.

"Yes, but they might all have changed their minds," I explain, my words tumbling out in excitement. "Or already have bought one! And then it would be my turn! Don't you see? I could have this bag!"

How can she look so impa.s.sive? Doesn't she understand how important this is?

"We will be contacting the customers in turn," says Silvia. "We will be in touch if a bag becomes available for you."

"I'll do it for you, if you like," I say, trying to sound helpful. "If you give me their numbers."

Silvia looks at me silently for a moment.

"No, thank you. We will be in touch."

"All right," I say, deflating. "Well, thanks."

There's nothing more I can do. I'll just stop thinking about it and enjoy the rest of Milan. Exactly. I give a final, longing glance at the Angel bag, then head out of the shop. I'm not going to obsess about this. I'm not even going to think about it. I'm going to focus on . . . culture. Yes.

Suddenly I stop dead in the street. I've given her the number of Luke's flat in London. But didn't he say something a while ago about putting in new phone lines?

What if I've left an obsolete number?

Quickly I retrace my steps and burst into the shop again.

"Hi!" I say breathlessly. "I just thought I'd give you another set of contact details, in case you can't get through." I rummage about in my bag and pull out one of Luke's cards. "This is my husband's office."

"Very well," Silvia says a little wearily.

"Only . . . come to think of it, if you speak to him, I wouldn't mention the actual bag." I lower my voice a little. "Say 'the Angel has landed.' "