Page 9 of Playing to Win

That’s my publicist. Flawless and fabulous Kerry. I have no doubt her leather pencil skirt and pink blouse—which matches her nails exactly—and those excruciatingly high black heels, are all designer. But the fact is, with her figure and looks, it wouldn’t matter if the clothes had been dredged from a gutter. She would still look 100 percent a-mazing. Of course, the look is all part of her job. “You have to know how to promote yourself if you want to be able to promote others,” she always tells me. I’m pretty sure that’s a play on the saying about loving oneself before you can love another—you know the one. Anyway, she’s a fearless beast when it comes to flaunting her clients and that’s what matters to me.

“Kerry, hi!” I let her fold me a little too zealously into her arms and we perform the perfunctory air-kiss routine.

She sets off walking and talking, so that I am left trudging after her with my suitcases, dragging one in each hand. I managed to sleep for a few hours on my night flight but I’m still yawning as I walk.

“You have a magazine interview tomorrow,” she announces. “Your book signing on Thursday has been shuffled to five thirty at Barnes & Noble. We’ll get you there at five. It will be set up ready for you, of course. Oh, I’ve booked you a radio interview for next week. We have various things lined up next Tuesday for publication day, although most of the promo is online.” She stops and turns quickly, making me crash into her swinging shoulder. As if the bump didn’t take place, she continues. “What are your thoughts on holding one of your Salsa Yourself Slim classes in the city?”

“Ah, yeah, that sounds great.”

“Good. Because I’ve started to put some feelers out with production companies. I was thinking we could film the session.”

“Well, I already have classes on YouTube.”

She laughs at me in a way that makes me feel like a small child. “No, not just YouTube videos, Izzy. I’m talking real production, for a DVD or an online course. Interactive exercise.” She takes a high-gloss brochure from her bag and hands it to me. “Here, take a look at this. I’d love to get you into this gym. A guy called Brooks Adams owns it. You might guess that from the name, ha. Who names a gym after himself? Anyway, he’s the man everyone in New York wants to be trained by right now. Let me know what you think.”

She spins on her devil shoes and heads out of the “Arrivals” exit. I follow her to a parked black Cadillac and finally turn over my suitcases to a suited driver.

Kerry continues to talk but when she tells me she will handle everything and that she’ll ping me a full schedule by e-mail, I allow myself to zone out.

I have been to New York a number of times, with my parents, with my girlfriends, once with a boyfriend. Regardless, the view of the city never gets old. I smile at the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, set against the morning’s sky. When we get closer to the city, the high-rises force me to take a breath so deep my chest rises. The Chrysler Building. The Empire State Building. The general buzz and hum of the busy streets. Even the endless streams of yellow cabs.

It’s all busier, brighter, bigger than London. I love it. I love it so much I think maybe I was a New Yorker in a past life. Then again, maybe I was a squirrel or a hippopotamus or some such and now I just happen to love this city.

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