Confessions of a Shopaholic (11 page)

For a while there’s silence between us. To be honest, Tarquin is so weird, I don’t know how to talk to him. Then, suddenly, he says, “Do you like Wagner?”

“Oh yes,” I say at once. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard any Wagner, but I don’t want to sound uncultured. And I have been to the opera before, though I think that was Mozart.

“ ‘The Liebestod’ from
Tristan
,” he says, and shakes his head. “ ‘The Liebestod.’ ”

“Mmm,” I say, and nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. I pour myself some wine, fill his glass up, too, and look around to see where Suze has got to. Typical of her just to disappear off and leave me with her drunken cousin.

“Dah-dah-
dah
-dah, daaaah dah dah . . .”

Oh my God, now he’s singing. Not loudly, but really intensely. And he’s staring into my eyes as though he expects me to join in.

“Dah-dah-
dah
-dah . . .”

Now he’s closed his eyes and is swaying. This is getting embarrassing.

“Da diddle-idy da-a-da-a daaaah dah . . .”

“Lovely,” I say brightly. “You can’t beat Wagner, can you?”

“
Tristan
,” he says. “
Und Isolde
.” He opens his eyes. “You’d make a beautiful Isolde.”

I’d make a
what
? While I’m still staring at him, he lifts my hand to his lips and starts kissing it. For a few seconds I’m too shocked to move.

“Tarquin,” I say as firmly as I can, trying to pull my hand away. “Tarquin, please—” I look up and desperately scan the room for Suze—and, as I do so, meet the eye of Luke Brandon, making his way out of the restaurant. He frowns slightly, lifts his hand in farewell, then disappears out of the door.

“Your skin smells like roses,” murmurs Tarquin against my skin.

“Oh, shut up!” I say crossly, and yank my hand out of his grasp so hard I get a row of teeth marks on my skin. “Just leave me alone!”

I would slap him, but he’d probably take it as a come-on.

Just then, Suze and Fenella arrive back at the table, full of news about Binky and Minky—and Tarquin reverts into silence. And for the rest of the evening, even when we say good-bye, he barely looks at me. Thank God. He must have got the message.

IT DOESN’T SEEM HE has, though, because on Saturday, I receive a card of a pre-Raphaelite girl looking coyly over her shoulder. Inside, Tarquin has written:

Many apologies for my uncouth behavior. I hope to make it up to you. Tickets to Bayreuth—or, failing that, dinner?

Tarquin.

Dinner with Tarquin. Can you imagine? And what’s he going on about, anyway? I’ve never heard of Bayreuth. Is it a new show or something? Or does he mean Beirut? Why would we want to go to Beirut, for God’s sake?

Anyway, I’ve got more important things to think about today. This is my sixth day of Cutting Back—and, crucially, my first weekend. David E. Barton says this is often when one’s frugal regime cracks, as the office routine is no longer there as a distraction and the day stretches empty, waiting to be filled with the familiar comfort of shopping.

But I’m too strong-willed to crack. I’ve got my day completely sussed—and I’m not going
near
any shops. This morning I’m going to visit a museum and then tonight, instead of wasting lots of money on an expensive takeaway, I’m cooking a homemade curry for me and Suze. I’m actually quite excited about it.

My entire budget for today is as follows:

Travel to museum: free (I already have a travelcard)

Museum: free

Curry: £2.50 (David E. Barton says you can make a wonderful curry for four people for less than £5.00—and there are only two of us.)

Total daily expenditure: £2.50

That’s more like it. Plus I get to experience culture instead of mindless materialism. I have chosen the Victoria & Albert Museum because I have never been to it before. In fact, I’m not even sure what they have in it. Statues of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, or something?

Anyway, whatever they have, it will be very interesting and stimulating, I’m sure. And above all, free!

As I come out of South Kensington tube, the sun’s shining brightly and I stride along, feeling pleased with myself. Normally I waste my Saturday mornings watching
Live and Kicking
and getting ready to go to the shops. But look at this! I suddenly feel very grown-up and metropolitan, like someone in a Woody Allen film. I just need a long woolly scarf and some sunglasses and I’ll look like Diane Keaton.

And on Monday, when people ask me how my weekend was, I’ll be able to say, “Actually, I went to the V&A.” No, what I’ll say is “I caught an exhibition.” That sounds much cooler. (Why
do
people say they “caught” an exhibition, by the way? It’s not as though all the paintings were thundering past like bulls at Pamplona.) Then they’ll say, “Really? I didn’t know you were into art, Rebecca.” And I’ll say, “Oh yes. I spend most of my free time at museums.” And they’ll give me an impressed look and say . . .

Come to think of it, I’ve walked straight past the entrance. Silly me. Too busy thinking about the conversation between me and . . . actually, the person I realize I’ve pictured in this little scene is Luke Brandon. How weird. Why should that be? Because I table-hopped with him, I suppose. Anyway. Concentrate. Museum.

Quickly I retrace my steps and walk nonchalantly into the entrance hall, trying to look as though I come here all the time. Not like that bunch of Japanese tourists clustering round their guide. Ha! I think proudly, I’m no tourist. This is my heritage.
My
culture. I pick up a map carelessly as though I don’t really need it, and look at a list of talks on things like
Ceramics of the Yuan and Early Ming Dynasties
. Then, casually, I begin to walk through to the first gallery.

“Excuse me?” A woman at a desk is calling to me. “Have you paid?”

Have I
what
? You don’t have to pay to get into museums! Oh, of course—she’s just joking with me. I give a friendly little laugh, and carry on.

“Excuse me!” she says, in a sharper voice, and a bloke in security uniform appears out of nowhere. “Have you paid for admission?”

“It’s free!” I say in surprise.

“I’m afraid not,” she says, and points to a sign behind me. I turn to read it, and nearly keel over in astonishment.

Admission £5.00.

I feel quite faint with shock. What’s happened to the world? They’re
charging
for admission to a museum. This is outrageous. Everyone knows museums are supposed to be free. If you start charging for museums, no one will ever go! Our cultural heritage will be lost to a whole generation, excluded by a punitive financial barrier. The nation will be dumbed down still further, and civilized society will face the very brink of collapse. Is that what you want, Tony Blair?

Plus, I don’t have £5. I deliberately came out with no cash except £2.50 for my curry ingredients. Oh God, this is annoying. I mean, here I am, all ready for some culture. I
want
to go in and look at . . . well, whatever’s in there—and I can’t!

Now all the Japanese tourists are staring at me, as if I’m some sort of criminal. Go away! I think crossly. Go and look at some art.

“We take credit cards,” says the woman. “VISA, Switch, American Express.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well . . . OK.”

“The season ticket is £15,” she says, as I reach for my purse, “but it gives you unlimited access for a year.”

Unlimited access for a year! Now wait just a minute. David E. Barton says what you’re supposed to do, when you make any purchase, is estimate the “cost per use,” which you get by dividing the price by the number of times you use it. Let’s suppose that from now on I come to the V&A once a month. (I should think that’s quite realistic.) If I buy a season ticket, that’s only . . . £1.25 a visit.

Well, that’s a bargain, isn’t it? It’s actually a very good investment, when you come to think of it.

“OK, I’ll have the season ticket,” I say, and hand over my VISA card. Hah! Culture here I come.

I start off really well. I look at my little map, and peer at each exhibit, and carefully read all the little cards.

That bowl’s really nice, I find myself thinking in sudden interest, and wonder how much it is. It looks quite expensive . . . I’m just peering to see if there’s a price tag when I remember where I am. Of course. There aren’t any prices here.

Which is a bit of a mistake, I think. Because it kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it? You wander round, just looking at things, and it all gets a bit boring after a while. Whereas if they put price tags on, you’d be far more interested. In fact, I think all museums should put prices on their exhibits. You’d look at a silver chalice or a marble statue or the
Mona Lisa
or whatever, and admire it for its beauty and historical importance and everything—and then you’d reach for the price tag and gasp, “Hey, look how much this one is!” It would really liven things up.

I might write to the Victoria & Albert and suggest this to them. I am a season-ticket holder, after all. They should listen to my opinion.

In the meantime, let’s move on to the next glass case.

God, I could die for a cup of coffee. How long have I been here? It must be . . .

Oh. Only fifteen minutes.

When I get to the gallery showing a history of fashion, I become quite rigorous and scholarly. In fact, I spend longer there than anywhere else. But then the dresses and shoes come to an end and it’s back to more statues and little fiddly things in cases. I keep looking at my watch, and my feet hurt . . . and in the end I sink down onto a sofa.

Don’t get me wrong, I like museums. I do. And I’m really interested in Korean art. It’s just that the floors are really hard, and I’m wearing quite tight boots, and it’s hot so I’ve taken off my jacket but now it keeps slithering around in my arms. And it’s weird, but I keep thinking I can hear the sound of a cash till. It must be in my imagination.

I’m sitting blankly, wondering if I can summon the energy to stand up again, when the group of Japanese tourists comes into the gallery, and I feel compelled to get to my feet and pretend I’m looking at something. I peer vaguely at a piece of tapestry, then stride off down a corridor lined with exhibits of old Indian tiles. I’m just thinking that maybe we should get the Fired Earth catalogue and retile the bathroom, when I glimpse something through a metal grille and stop dead with shock.

Am I dreaming? Is it a mirage? I can see a cash register, and a queue of people, and a display cabinet with price tags . . .

Oh my God, I was right! It’s a shop! There’s a
shop
, right there in front of me!

Suddenly my steps have more spring in them; my energy has miraculously returned. Following the bleeping sound of the cash register, I hurry round the corner to the shop entrance and pause on the threshold, telling myself not to raise my hopes, not to be disappointed if it’s just bookmarks and tea towels.

But it’s not. It’s bloody fantastic! Why isn’t this place better known? There’s a whole range of gorgeous jewelry, and loads of really interesting books on art, and there’s all this amazing pottery, and greeting cards, and . . .

Oh. But I’m not supposed to be buying anything today, am I? Damn.

This is awful. What’s the point of discovering a new shop and then not being able to buy anything in it? It’s not fair. Everyone else is buying stuff, everyone else is having fun. For a while I hover disconsolately beside a display of mugs, watching as an Australian woman buys a pile of books on sculpture. She’s chatting away to the sales assistant, and suddenly I hear her say something about Christmas. And then I have a flash of pure genius.

Christmas shopping! I can do all my Christmas shopping here! I know March is a bit early, but why not be organized? And then when Christmas arrives I won’t have to go near the horrible Christmas crowds. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of doing this before. And it’s not breaking the rules, because I’d have to buy Christmas presents
sometime
, wouldn’t I? All I’m doing is shifting the buying process forward a bit. It makes perfect sense.

And so, about an hour later, I emerge happily with two carrier bags. I’ve bought a photograph album covered in William Morris print, an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw puzzle, a book of fashion photographs, and a fantastic ceramic teapot. God, I
love
Christmas shopping. I’m not sure what I’ll give to who—but the point is, these are all timeless and unique items that would enhance any home. (Or at least the ceramic teapot is, because that’s what it said on the little leaflet.) So I reckon I’ve done really well.

In fact, this morning has been a great success. As I emerge from the museum, I feel incredibly content and uplifted. It just shows the effect that a morning of pure culture has on the soul. From now on, I decide, I’m going to spend every Saturday morning at a museum.

When I get back home, the second post is on the doormat and there’s a square envelope addressed to me in writing I don’t recognize. I rip it open as I lug my carrier bags to my room—and then stop in surprise. It’s a card from Luke Brandon. How did he get my home address?

Dear Rebecca
, it says,
It was good to bump into you the other night, and I do hope you had an enjoyable evening. I now realize that I never thanked you for the prompt repayment of my loan. Much appreciated
.

With all best wishes—and, of course, deepest sympathy on the loss of your Aunt Ermintrude. (If it’s any consolation, I can’t imagine that scarf could suit anyone better than you.)

Luke.

For a while I stare at it silently. I’m quite taken aback. Gosh, I think cautiously. It’s nice of him to write, isn’t it? A nice handwritten card like this, just to thank me for
my
card. I mean, he’s not just being polite, is he? You don’t have to send a thank-you card to someone just because they repaid your twenty quid.