Confessions of a Shopaholic (20 page)

Suddenly I don’t feel hungry anymore. I don’t want fish cakes and rocket salad. I don’t even want to be here. My happy glow is fading away, and underneath I feel chilly and rather stupid. Luke Brandon’s got a girlfriend. Of course he has. Some beautiful smart girl called Sacha, who has manicured nails and travels everywhere with expensive cases. I’m a fool, aren’t I? I should have known there’d be a Sacha somewhere on the scene. I mean, it’s obvious.

Except . . . Except it’s not that obvious. In fact, it’s not obvious at all. Luke hasn’t mentioned his girlfriend all morning. Why hasn’t he? Why didn’t he just
say
the suitcase was for her in the first place? Why did he let me sit on the floor beside him in Harrods and laugh as I marched up and down, testing the wheels? I wouldn’t have behaved anything like that if I’d known we were buying a case for his girlfriend. And he must have known that. He must have known.

A cold feeling begins to creep over me. This is all wrong.

“All right?” says Luke, turning back to me.

“No,” I hear myself saying. “No, it’s not. You didn’t tell me that case was for your girlfriend. You didn’t even tell me you
had
a girlfriend.”

Oh God. I’ve done it now. I’ve been completely uncool. But somehow I don’t care.

“I see,” says Luke after a pause. He picks up a piece of bread and begins to break it up with his fingers, then looks up. “Sacha and I have been together awhile now,” he says kindly. “I’m sorry if I gave . . . any other impression.”

He’s patronizing me. I can’t bear it.

“That’s not the point,” I say, feeling my cheeks flushing beet red. “It’s just . . . it’s all wrong.”

“Wrong?” he says, looking amused.

“You should have told me we were choosing a case for your girlfriend,” I say doggedly, staring down at the table. “It would have made things . . . different.”

There’s silence and I raise my eyes, to see Luke looking at me as though I’m crazy.

“Rebecca,” he says, “you’re getting this all out of proportion. I wanted your opinion on suitcases. End of story.”

“And are you going to tell your girlfriend you asked my advice?”

“Of course I am!” says Luke, and gives a little laugh. “I expect she’ll be rather amused.”

I stare at him in silence, feeling mortification creep over me. My throat’s tight, and there’s a pain growing in my chest.
Amused
. Sacha will be amused when she hears about me.

Well, of course she will. Who wouldn’t be amused by hearing about the girl who spent her entire morning testing out suitcases for another woman? The girl who got completely the wrong end of the stick. The girl who was so stupid, she thought Luke Brandon might actually like her.

I swallow hard, feeling sick with humiliation. For the first time, I’m realizing how Luke Brandon sees me. How they all see me. I’m just the comedy turn, aren’t I? I’m the scatty girl who gets things wrong and makes people laugh. The girl who didn’t know SBG and Rutland Bank had merged. The girl no one would ever think of taking seriously. Luke didn’t bother telling me we were choosing a suitcase for his girlfriend because I don’t matter. He’s only buying me lunch because he hasn’t got anything else to do—and probably because he thinks I might do something entertaining like drop my fork, which he can laugh about when he gets back to the office.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a wobbly voice, and stand up. “I haven’t got time for lunch after all.”

“Rebecca, don’t be silly!” says Luke. “Look, I’m sorry you didn’t know about my girlfriend.” He raises his eyebrows quizzically, and I almost want to hit him. “But we can still be friends, can’t we?”

“No,” I say stiffly, aware that my voice is thick and my eyes smarting. “No, we can’t. Friends treat each other with respect. But you don’t respect me, do you, Luke? You just think I’m a joke. A nothing. Well . . .” I swallow hard. “Well, I’m not.”

And before he can say anything else I turn and quickly make my way out of the restaurant, half blinded by disappointed tears.

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

15 March 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586

Thank you for your payment of £10.00, received on 13 March.

As I have pointed out several times, the minimum payment required was in fact £105.40.

The balance currently overdue is therefore £95.40. I look forward to receiving your payment as soon as possible.

If satisfactory payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.

Yours sincerely,

Peter Johnson

Customer Accounts Executive

Ms. Rebecca Boomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

18 March 2000

Dear Ms. Boomwood:

Just think . . .

What kind of difference would a personal loan make to your life?

A new car, perhaps. Improvements to the home. A boat for those weekend breaks. Or maybe just the peace of mind, knowing that all those bills can easily be taken care of.

Bank of London will offer loans for almost any purpose—so don’t wait any longer! Turn your life into the lifestyle you deserve.

With a Bank of London Easifone Loan, you don’t even have to fill in any forms. Simply call one of our friendly 24-hour operators on 0100 45 46 47 48 and let us do the rest.

Just think . . .

We look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Sue Skepper

Marketing Executive

P.S. Why delay? Pick up the phone now and dial 0100 45 46 4748. It couldn’t be easier!

I ARRIVE HOME THAT afternoon, feeling weary and miserable. Suddenly, triple-A-rated jobs in banking and Harrods with Luke Brandon seem miles away. Real life isn’t swanning round Knightsbridge in a taxi, choosing £1,000 suitcases, is it? This is real life. Home to a tiny flat which still smells of curry, and a pile of nasty letters from the bank, and no idea what to do about them.

I put my key in the lock, and as I open the door, I hear Suze cry, “Bex? Is that you?”

“Yes!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Where are you?”

“Here,” she says, appearing at the door of my bedroom. Her face is all pink, and there’s a shine in her eyes. “Guess what! I’ve got a surprise for you!”

“What is it?” I say, putting down my briefcase. To be honest, I’m not in the mood for one of Suze’s surprises. She’ll just have moved my bed to a different place, or something. And all I want is to sit down and have a cup of tea and something to eat. I never did get any lunch.

“Come and see. No, no, shut your eyes, first. I’ll lead you.”

“OK,” I say reluctantly. I close my eyes and allow her to take my hand. We start to walk along the corridor—and of course, as we near my bedroom door, I start feeling a little tingle of anticipation in spite of myself. I always fall for things like this.

“Da-daaa! You can look now!”

I open my eyes and look dazedly around my room, wondering what mad thing Suze has done. At least she hasn’t painted the walls or touched the curtains, and my computer’s safely switched off. So what on earth can she have . . .

And then I see them. On my bed. Piles and piles of upholstered frames. All made up perfectly, with no wonky corners, and the braid glued neatly in place. I can’t quite believe my eyes. There must be at least . . .

“I’ve done a hundred,” says Suze behind me. “And I’m going to do the rest tomorrow! Aren’t they fab?”

I turn and stare incredulously at her. “You . . . you did all these?”

“Yes!” she says proudly. “It was easy, once I got into a rhythm. I did it in front of
Morning Coffee
. Oh, I wish you’d seen it. They had
such
a good phone-in, about men who dress up in women’s clothes! Emma was being all sympathetic, but Rory looked like he wanted to—”

“Wait,” I say, trying to get my head round this. “Wait. Suze, I don’t understand. This must have taken you
ages
.” My eye runs disbelievingly over the pile of frames again. “Why . . . why on earth did you—”

“Well, you weren’t getting very far with them, were you?” says Suze. “I just thought I’d give you a helping hand.”

“A helping hand?” I echo weakly.

“I’ll do the rest tomorrow, and then I’ll ring up the delivery people,” says Suze. “You know, it’s a very good system. You don’t have to post them, or anything. They just come and pick them up! And then they’ll send you a check. It should come to about £284. Pretty good, huh?”

“Hang on.” I turn round. “What do you mean, they’ll send me a check?” Suze looks at me as though I’m stupid.

“Well, Bex, they are
your
frames.”

“But you made them! Suze, you should get the money!”

“But I did them for you!” says Suze, and stares at me. “I did them so you could make your three hundred quid!”

I stare at her silently, feeling a sudden thickness in my throat. Suze made all these frames for me. Slowly I sit down on the bed, pick up one of the frames, and run my finger along the fabric. It’s absolutely perfect. You could sell it in Liberty’s.

“Suze, it’s your money. Not mine,” I say eventually. “It’s your project now.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” says Suze, and a triumphant look spreads over her face. “I’ve got my own project.”

She comes over to the bed, reaches behind the pile of made-up frames, and pulls something out. It’s a photo frame, but it’s nothing like a Fine Frame. It’s upholstered in silver furry fabric, and the word angel is appliquéd in pink across the top, and there are little silver pom-poms at the corners. It’s the coolest, kitschest frame I’ve ever seen.

“Do you like it?” she says, a bit nervously.

“I love it!” I say, grabbing it from her hands and looking more closely at it. “Where did you get it?”

“I didn’t get it anywhere,” she says. “I made it.”

“What?” I stare at her. “You . . . made this?”

“Yes. During
Neighbours
. It was awful, actually. Beth found out about Joey and Skye.”

I’m completely astounded. How come Suze suddenly turns out to be so talented?

“So what do you reckon?” she says, taking the frame back and turning it over in her fingers. “Could I sell these?”

Could she sell these?

“Suze,” I say quite seriously. “You’re going to be a millionaire.”

And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and eating ice cream, as we always do when something good or bad happens to either one of us. We map out Suze’s career as a high-flying businesswoman, and get quite hysterical trying to decide if she should wear Chanel or Prada when she goes to meet the queen. Somehow the discussion ends with us trying on each other’s smartest outfits (Suze looks really good in my new Hobbs dress, much better than me), and by the time I get into bed, I’ve forgotten all about Luke Brandon, and Bank of Helsinki, and the rest of my disastrous day.

The next morning, it all comes rushing back to me like a horror movie. I wake up feeling pale and shaky, and desperately wishing I could take a sickie. I don’t want to go to work. I want to stay at home under the duvet, watching daytime telly and being a millionairess entrepreneur with Suze.

But it’s the busiest week of the month, and Philip’ll never believe I’m ill.

So, somehow, I haul myself out of bed and into some clothes and onto the tube. At Lucio’s I buy myself an extra large cappuccino, and a muffin,
and
a chocolate brownie. I don’t care if I get fat. I just need sugar and caffeine and chocolate, and as much as possible.

Luckily it’s so busy, no one’s talking very much, so I don’t have to bother telling everyone at the office what I did on my day off. Clare’s tapping away at something and there’s a pile of pages on my desk, ready for me to proofread. So after checking my e-mails—none—I scrunch miserably up in my chair, pick up the first one, and start to scan it.

“Market efficiencies dictate that greater risks must accompany greater reward. Fund managers understand the balance sheets and market momentum driving volatile stocks.”

Oh God, this is boring.

“These experts therefore minimize risk in a way that the average investor cannot. For the small-time investor . . .”

“Rebecca?” I look up, to see Philip approaching my desk, holding a piece of paper. He doesn’t look very happy, and for one terrible moment, I think he’s spoken to Jill Foxton at William Green, has discovered everything, and is about to fire me. But as he gets nearer, I see it’s only some dull-looking press release.

“I want you to go to this instead of me,” he says. “It’s on Friday. I’d go myself, but I’m going to be tied up here with Marketing.”

“Oh,” I say without enthusiasm, and take the piece of paper. “OK. What is it?”

“Personal Finance Fair at Olympia,” he says. “We always cover it.”

Yawn. Yawn yawn yawn . . .

“Barclays are giving a champagne lunchtime reception,” he adds.

“Oh right!” I say, with more interest. “Well, OK. It sounds quite good. What exactly is it—”

I glance down at the paper, and my heart stops as I see the Brandon Communications logo at the top of the page.

“It’s basically just a big fair,” says Philip. “All sectors of personal finance. Talks, stands, events. Just cover whatever sounds interesting. I leave it up to you.”

“OK,” I say after a pause. “Fine.”

I mean, what do I care if Luke Brandon might be there? I’ll just ignore him. I’ll show him about as much respect as he showed me. And if he tries to talk to me, I’ll just lift my chin firmly in the air, and turn on my heel, and . . .

“How are the pages going?” says Philip.

“Oh, great,” I say, and pick the top one up again. “Should be finished soon.” He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.