Confessions of a Shopaholic (22 page)

“Fulham!” says Philip. “Trendy Fulham.”

And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong-dong-dong! I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to say something; change the subject. But it’s too late. I’m the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.

“Rebecca lives in Fulham,” Philip’s saying. “Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You’re probably one of Derek’s customers!” He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.

But I can’t laugh. I’m frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell’s face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” she says, in quite a different voice. “I
thought
I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca?”

“That’s clever!” says Philip. “How did you know that?” And he takes another swig of champagne.

Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shut
up
.

“So you do?” Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip’s looking at me, waiting for me to answer.

“Yes,” I say in a strangled voice. I’m gripping my champagne glass so hard, I think I might break it.

“Derek, have you realized who this is?” says Erica pleasantly. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember?” Her voice hardens. “The one with the dead dog?”

There’s silence. I don’t dare look at Derek Smeath’s face. I don’t dare look at anything except the floor.

“Well, there’s a coincidence!” says Philip. “More champagne, anyone?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” says Derek Smeath. He sounds quite faint. “I don’t believe it.”

“Yes!” I say, desperately slugging back the last of my champagne. “Ha-ha-ha! It’s a small world. Well, I must be off and interview some more . . .”

“Wait!” says Erica, her voice like a dagger. “We were hoping to have a little meeting with you, Rebecca. Weren’t we, Derek?”

“Indeed we were,” says Derek Smeath. I feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn’t like a cozy sitcom uncle anymore. He’s like a scary exam monitor, who’s just caught you cheating. “That is,” he adds pointedly, “assuming your legs are both intact and you aren’t suffering from any dreaded lurgey?”

“What’s this?” says Philip cheerfully.

“How
is
the leg, by the way?” says Erica sweetly.

“Fine,” I mumble. “Fine, thanks.”

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “So we’ll say Monday at nine-thirty, shall we?” He looks at Philip. “You don’t mind if Rebecca joins us for a quick meeting on Monday morning, do you?”

“Of course not!” says Philip.

“And if she doesn’t turn up,” says Derek Smeath, “we’ll know where to find her, won’t we?” He gives me a sharp look, and I feel my stomach contract in fright.

“Rebecca’ll turn up!” says Philip. He gives me a jokey grin, lifts his glass, and wanders off. Oh God, I think in panic. Don’t leave me alone with them.

“Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you,” says Derek Smeath. He pauses, and gives me a beady look. “And if I remember rightly from our telephone conversation the other day, you’ll be coming into some funds by then.”

Oh shit. I thought he’d have forgotten about that.

“That’s right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. My aunt’s money. Well remembered! My aunt left me some money recently,” I explain to Erica Parnell.

Erica Parnell doesn’t look impressed.

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “Then I’ll expect you on Monday.”

“Fine,” I say, and smile even more confidently at him. “Looking forward to it already!”

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Charge Card Number 7854 4567

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

15 March 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

FINAL REMINDER

Further to my letter of 9 March, there is still an outstanding balance of £235.76 on your Octagon Silver Card. Should payment not arrive within the next seven days, your account will be frozen and further action will be taken.

I was glad to hear that you have found the Lord and accepted Jesus Christ as your savior; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.

I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.

Yours sincerely,

Grant Ellesmore

Customer Finance Manager

THIS IS BAD. I mean, I’m not just being paranoid, am I? This is really bad.

As I sit on the tube on my way home, I stare at my reflection—outwardly calm and relaxed. But inside, my mind’s scurrying around like a spider, trying to find a way out. Round and round and round, legs flailing, no escape . . . OK, stop. Stop! Calm down and let’s go through the options one more time.

Option One: Go to meeting and tell the truth.

I just can’t. I
can’t
go along on Monday morning and admit that there isn’t £1,000 from my aunt and there never will be. What will they do to me? They’ll get all serious, won’t they? They’ll sit me down and start going through all my expenditures and . . . Oh God, I feel sick at the thought of it. I can’t do it. I can’t go. End of story.

Option Two: Go to meeting and lie.

So, what, tell them the £1,000 is absolutely on its way, and that further funds will be coming through soon. Hmm. Possible. The trouble is, I don’t think they’ll believe me. So they’ll still get all serious, sit me down, give me a lecture. No way.

Option Three: Don’t go to meeting.

But if I don’t, Derek Smeath will phone Philip and they’ll start talking. Maybe the whole story will come out, and he’ll find out I didn’t actually break my leg. Or have glandular fever. And after that I won’t ever be able to go back into the office. I’ll be unemployed. My life will be over at the age of twenty-five.

Option Four: Go to meeting with check for £1,000.

Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the check, say “Will there be anything else?” and waltz out again.

But how do I get £1,000 before Monday morning?
How
?

Option Five: Run away.

Which would be very childish and immature. Not worth considering.

I wonder where I could go? Maybe abroad somewhere. Las Vegas. Yes, and I could win a fortune at the casinos. A million pounds or something. Even more, perhaps. And then, yes, then I’d fax Derek Smeath, saying I’m closing my bank account due to his lack of faith in me.

God yes! Wouldn’t that be great? “Dear Mr. Smeath, I was a little surprised at your recent implication that I have insufficient funds to cover my overdraft. As this check for £1.2 million shows, I have ample funds at my disposal, which I will shortly be moving to one of your competitors. Perhaps they will treat me with more respect. p.s., I am copying this letter to your superiors.”

I love this idea so much, I lean back and wallow in it for a while, amending the letter over and over in my head. “Dear Mr. Smeath, as I tried to inform you discreetly at our last encounter, I am in fact a millionairess. If only you had trusted me, things might have been different.”

God, he’ll be sorry, won’t he? He’ll probably phone up and apologize. Try and keep my business and say he hadn’t meant to offend me. But it’ll be too late. Hah! Ha-ha-ha-ha . . .

Oh blast. Missed my stop.

When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by magazines.

“Hi!” she says brightly. “Guess what? I’m going to be in
Vogue
!”

“What?” I say disbelievingly. “Were you spotted on the streets or something?” Suze has got an excellent figure. She could easily be a model. But still . . .
Vogue
!

“Not me, silly!” she says. “My frames.”

“Your
frames
are going to be in
Vogue
?” Now I really am disbelieving.

“In the June issue! I’m going to be in a piece called ‘Just Relax: Designers Who Are Bringing the Fun Back into Interiors.’ It’s cool, isn’t it? The only thing is, I’ve only made two frames so far, so I need to make a few more in case people want to buy them.”

“Right,” I say, trying to grasp all this. “So—how come
Vogue
is doing a piece about you? Did they . . . hear about you?” I mean, she only started making frames four days ago!

“No, silly!” she says, and laughs. “I phoned up Lally. Have you met Lally?” I shake my head. “Well, she’s fashion editor of
Vogue
now, and she spoke to Perdy, who’s the interiors editor, and Perdy phoned me back—and when I told her what my frames were like, she just went wild.”

“Gosh,” I say. “Well done.”

“She told me what to say in my interview, too,” Suze adds, and clears her throat importantly. “I want to create spaces for people to enjoy, not admire. There’s a bit of the child in all of us. Life’s too short for minimalism.”

“Oh right,” I say. “Great!”

“No, wait, there was something else, too.” Suze frowns thoughtfully. “Oh yes, my designs are inspired by the imaginative spirit of Gaudi. I’m going to phone up Charlie now,” she adds happily. “I’m
sure
he’s something at
Tatler
.”

“Great,” I say again.

And it is great.

I’m really glad for Suze. Of course I am. If Suze gets in
Vogue
, I’ll be the proudest person in the world.

But at the same time there’s a part of me that’s thinking, How come everything happens so easily for her? I bet Suze has never had to face a nasty bank manager in her life. And I bet she never will have to, either.

Immediately I feel a huge spasm of guilt. Why can’t I just be glad for Suze and nothing else? Dispiritedly I sink down onto the floor and begin to flip through a magazine.

“By the way,” says Suze, looking up from the phone. “Tarquin rang about an hour ago, to arrange your date.” She grins wickedly. “Are you looking forward to it?”

“Oh,” I say dully. “Of course I am.”

I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest. But it’s OK—I’ll just wait until tomorrow afternoon and say I’ve got period pain. Easy. No one ever questions that, especially men.

“Oh yes,” says Suze, gesturing to a
Harper’s and Queen
open on the floor. “And look who I came across just now in the Hundred Richest Bachelors list! Oh hi, Charlie,” she says into the phone. “It’s Suze! Listen—”

I look down at the open
Harper’s and Queen
and freeze. Luke Brandon is staring out of the page at me, an easy smile on his face.

Number 31
, reads the caption.
Age 32. Estimated wealth: £10 million. Scarily intelligent entrepreneur. Lives in Chelsea; currently dating Sacha de Bonneville, daughter of the French billionaire
.

I don’t want to know this. Why would I be interested in who Luke Brandon is dating? Not remotely interested.

Sacha
. Sacha, with her million-pound suitcase and perfect figure and whole wardrobe full of Prada. She’ll have immaculate nails, won’t she? Of course she will. And hair that never goes wrong. And some really sexy French accent, and incredibly long legs . . .

Anyway, I’m not interested. Savagely I flip the page backward and start reading about Number 17, who sounds much nicer.

Dave Kington. Age 28. Estimated wealth: £20 million. Former striker for Manchester United, now management guru and sportswear entrepreneur. Lives in Hertfordshire, recently split from girlfriend, model Cherisse.

And anyway, Luke Brandon’s boring. Everyone says so. All he does is work. Obsessed with money, probably.

Number 16, Ernest Flight. Age 52. Estimated wealth: £22 million. Chairman and major shareholder of the Flight Foods Corporation. Lives in Nottinghamshire, recently divorced from third wife Susan.

I don’t even think he’s that good-looking. Too tall. And he probably doesn’t go to the gym or anything. Too busy. He’s probably hideous underneath his clothes.

Number 15, Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Age 26. Estimated wealth: £25 million. Landowner since inheriting family estate at age 19. V. publicity-shy. Lives in Perthshire and London with old nanny; currently single.

Anyway, what kind of man buys luggage as a present? I mean, a
suitcase
, for God’s sake, when he had the whole of Harrods to choose from. He could have bought his girlfriend a necklace, or some clothes. Or he could have . . . He could have . . .

Hang on a moment, what was that?

What
was that?

No. That can’t be— Surely that’s not—

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My entire frame is concentrated on the blurry picture in front of me. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart? Tarquin Suze’s-Cousin?
Tarquin
?

Tarquin . . . has . . . twenty-five . . . million . . . pounds?

I think I’m going to pass out, if I can ever ungrip my hand from this page. I’m staring at the fifteenth richest bachelor in Britain—and I know him.

Not only do I know him, I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.

oh. my. god.

I’m going to be a millionairess. A multimillionairess. I knew it. Didn’t I know it? I
knew
it. Tarquin’s going to fall in love with me and ask me to marry him and we’ll get married in a gorgeous Scottish castle just like in
Four Weddings
(except with nobody dying on us).

Of course, I’ll love him, too. By then.

I know I haven’t exactly been attracted to him in the past . . . but it’s all a matter of willpower, isn’t it? I bet that’s what most long-term successful couples would say counts in a relationship. Willpower and a desire to make it work. Both of which I absolutely have. You know what? I actually fancy him more already. Well, not exactly
fancy
. . . but just the thought of him makes me feel all excited, which must mean something, mustn’t it?

It’s going to happen. I’m going to be Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart and have £25 million.

And what will Derek Smeath say
then
? Hah!

Hah!

“D’you want a cup of tea?” says Suze, putting down the phone. “Charlie’s such a poppet. He’s going to feature me in Britain’s Up-and-Coming-Talent.”