Confessions of a Shopaholic (26 page)

“Fine,” says the girl curtly, and swipes the card.

It’s only as we’re waiting silently for the authorization that I begin to wonder whether I’ve actually paid off my Octagon account. They sent me a nasty letter a while ago, didn’t they? Something about an outstanding balance. But I’m sure I paid it off, ages ago. Or at least some of it. Didn’t I? I’m sure I . . .

“I’m just going to have to make a quick call,” says the assistant, staring at her machine. She reaches for the phone next to the till.

“Hi,” she says. “Yes, if I can give you an account number . . .”

Behind me, somebody sighs loudly. I can feel my face growing hotter and hotter. I don’t dare look round. I don’t dare move.

“I see,” says the assistant eventually, and puts down the phone. She looks up—and at the sight of her face, my stomach gives a lurch. Her expression isn’t apologetic or polite anymore. It’s plain unfriendly.

“Our financial services department would like you to contact them urgently,” she says curtly. “I’ll give you the number.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. As though this is a fairly normal request. “OK. Well, I’ll do that. Thanks.” I hold my hand out for my charge card. I’m not interested in my shopping anymore. All I want to do is get out of here as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid your account’s been frozen,” says the assistant without lowering her voice. “I’m going to have to retain your card.”

I stare at her in disbelief, feeling my face prickling with shock. Behind me there’s an interested rustle as everybody hears this and starts nudging each other.

“So, unless you have another means of paying . . .” she adds, looking at my heap of stuff on the counter. My waffle robe. My new duvet set. My scented candle. A huge, conspicuous pile of stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Stuff I can’t pay for. Suddenly the sight of it all makes me feel sick.

Numbly I shake my head. I feel as if I’ve been caught stealing.

“Elsa,” calls the assistant. “Will you deal with this, please? The customer isn’t going to make the purchase after all.” She gestures to the pile of stuff, and the other assistant moves it along the counter, out of the way, her face deliberately blank.

“Next, please.”

The woman behind me steps forward, avoiding my eye in embarrassment, and slowly I turn away. I have never felt so humiliated in all my life. The whole floor seems to be looking at me—all the customers, all the sales assistants, all whispering and nudging.
Did you see? Did you see what happened
?

With wobbling legs I walk away, not looking right or left. This is a nightmare. I just have to get out, as quickly as possible. I have to get out of the shop and onto the street and go . . .

Go where? Home, I suppose.

But I can’t go back and face Suze. She’s been so kind to me and how have I behaved? She has no idea what a horrible person I am. If I go home, I’ll have to hear her telling me again how sweet Tarquin is. Or even worse, risk bumping into him. Oh God. The very thought makes me feel sick.

What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?

Shakily I begin to walk along the pavement, looking away from the mocking window displays. What can I do? Where can I go? I feel empty, almost light-headed with panic.

I pause at a corner, waiting for a traffic light to change, and look blankly at a display of cashmere jumpers to my left. And suddenly, at the sight of a scarlet Pringle golfing jumper, I feel tears of relief springing to my eyes. There’s one place I can go. One place I can always go.

WHEN I TURN UP at my parents’ house that afternoon without warning, saying I want to stay for a few days, I can’t say they seem shocked.

In fact, so unsurprised do they seem that I begin to wonder if they’ve been expecting this eventuality all along, ever since I moved to London. Have they been waiting every week for me to arrive on the doorsteps with no luggage and red eyes? They’re certainly behaving as calmly as a hospital casualty team operating an emergency procedure.

Except that surely the casualty team wouldn’t keep arguing about the best way to resuscitate the patient? After a few minutes, I feel like going outside, letting them decide on their plan of action, and ringing the bell again.

“You go upstairs and have a nice hot bath,” says Mum, as soon as I’ve put down my handbag. “I expect you’re exhausted!”

“She doesn’t have to have a bath if she doesn’t want to!” retorts Dad. “She might want a drink! D’you want a drink, darling?”

“Is that
wise
?” says Mum, shooting him a meaningful what-if-she’s-an-alkie? look, which presumably I’m not supposed to notice.

“I don’t want a drink, thanks,” I say. “But I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Of course you would!” says Mum. “Graham, go and put the kettle on.” And she gives him another meaningful look. As soon as he’s disappeared into the kitchen, she comes close to me and says, in a lowered voice, “Are you feeling all right, darling? Is anything . . . wrong?”

Oh God, there’s nothing like your mother’s sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.

“Well,” I say, in a slightly uncertain voice. “Things have been better. I’m just . . . in a bit of a difficult situation at the moment. But it’ll be all right in the end.” I give a small shrug and look away.

“Because . . .” She lowers her voice even more. “Your father isn’t as old-fashioned as he seems. And I know that if it were a case of us looking after a . . . a little one, while you pursued your career . . .”

What?

“Mum, don’t worry!” I exclaim sharply. “I’m not pregnant!”

“I never said you were,” she says, and flushes a little. “I just wanted to offer you our support.”

My parents watch too many soap operas, that’s their trouble. In fact, they were probably
hoping
I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

And what’s this “offer you our support” business, anyway? My mum would never have said that before she started watching Ricki Lake.

“Well, come on,” she says. “Let’s sit you down with a nice cup of tea.”

And so I follow her into the kitchen, and we all sit down with a cup of tea. And I have to say, it is very nice. Hot strong tea and a chocolate bourbon biscuit. Perfect. I close my eyes and take a few sips, and then open them again, to see both my parents gazing at me with naked curiosity all over their faces. Immediately my mother changes her expression to a smile, and my father gives a little cough—but I can tell, they are
gagging
to know what’s wrong.

“So,” I say cautiously, and both their heads jerk up. “You’re both well, are you?”

“Oh yes,” says my mother. “Yes,
we’re
fine.”

There’s another silence.

“Becky?” says my father gravely, and both Mum and I swivel to face him. “Are you in some kind of trouble we should know about? Only tell us if you want to,” he adds hastily. “And I want you to know—we’re there for you.”

That’s another bloody Ricki Lake–ism, too. My parents should really get out more.

“Are you all right, darling?” says Mum gently—and she sounds so kind and understanding that, in spite of myself, I find myself putting down my cup with a bit of a clatter and saying “To tell you the truth, I am in a spot of bother. I didn’t want to worry you, so I haven’t said anything before now . . .” I can feel tears gathering in my eyes.

“What is it?” says Mum in a panicky voice. “You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not on drugs!” I exclaim. “I’m just . . . It’s just that I . . . I’m . . .” I take a deep gulp of tea. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Come on, Rebecca, just
say
it.

I close my eyes and clench my hand tightly around my mug.

“The truth is . . .” I say slowly.

“Yes?” says Mum.

“The truth is . . .” I open my eyes. “I’m being stalked. By a man called . . . called Derek Smeath.”

There’s silence apart from a long hiss as my father sucks in breath.

“I knew it!” says my mother in a sharp, brittle voice. “I knew it! I knew there was something wrong!”

“We all knew there was something wrong!” says my father, and rests his elbows heavily on the table. “How long has this been going on, Becky?”

“Oh, ahm . . . months now,” I say, staring into my tea. “It’s just . . . pestering, really. It’s not serious or anything. But I just couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

“And who is this Derek Smeath?” says Dad. “Do we know him?”

“I don’t think so. I came across him . . . I came across him through work.”

“Of course you did!” says Mum. “A young, pretty girl like you, with a high-profile career . . . I knew this was going to happen!”

“Is he another journalist?” says Dad, and I shake my head.

“He works for Endwich Bank. He does things like . . . like phone up and pretend he’s in charge of my bank account. He’s really convincing.”

There’s silence while my parents digest this and I eat another chocolate bourbon.

“Well,” says Mum at last. “I think we’ll have to phone the police.”

“No!” I exclaim, spluttering crumbs all over the table. “I don’t want the police! He’s never threatened me or anything. In fact, he’s not really a stalker at all. He’s just a pain. I thought if I disappeared for a while . . .”

“I see,” says Dad, and glances at Mum. “Well, that makes sense.”

“So what I suggest,” I say, meshing my hands tightly in my lap, “is that if he rings, you say I’ve gone abroad and you don’t have a number for me. And . . . if anyone else rings, say the same thing. Even Suze. I’ve left her a message saying I’m OK—but I don’t want anyone to know where I am.”

“Are you sure?” says Mum, wrinkling her brow. “Wouldn’t it be better to go to the police?”

“No!” I say quickly. “That would only make him feel important. I just want to vanish for a bit.”

“Fine,” says Dad. “As far as we’re concerned, you’re not here.”

He reaches across the table and clasps my hand. And as I see the worry on his face, I hate myself for what I’m doing.

But I simply can’t tell my kind, loving parents that their so-called successful daughter with her so-called top job is in fact a disorganized, deceitful mess, up to her eyeballs in debt.

And so we have supper (Waitrose Cumberland Pie) and watch an Agatha Christie adaption together, and then I go upstairs to my old bedroom, put on an old nightie, and go to bed. And when I wake up the next morning, I feel more happy and rested than I have for weeks.

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No one can get me here. No one even
knows
I’m here. I won’t get any nasty letters and I won’t get any nasty phone calls and I won’t get any nasty visitors. It’s like a sanctuary. I feel as if I’m fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my homework. (And I haven’t even got any of that.)

It’s at least nine o’clock before I rouse myself and get out of bed, and as I do so, it occurs to me that miles away in London, Derek Smeath is expecting me to arrive for a meeting in half an hour. A slight twinge passes through my stomach and for a moment I consider phoning up the bank and giving some excuse. But even as I’m considering it, I know I’m not going to do it. I don’t even want to acknowledge the bank’s existence. I want to forget all about it.

None of it exists anymore. Not the bank, not VISA, not Octagon. All eliminated from my life, just like that.

The only call I make is to the office, because I don’t want them sacking me in my absence. I phone at nine-twenty—before Philip gets in—and get Mavis on reception.

“Hello, Mavis?” I croak. “It’s Rebecca Bloomwood here. Can you tell Philip I’m ill?”

“You poor thing!” says Mavis. “Is it bronchitis?”

“I’m not sure,” I croak. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later. I must go. Bye.”

And that’s it. One phone call, and I’m free. No one suspects anything—why should they? I feel light with relief. It’s so easy to escape. I should have done this long ago.

At the back of my mind, like a nasty little gremlin, is the knowledge that I won’t be able to stay here forever. That sooner or later things will start to catch up with me. But the point is—not yet. And in the meantime, I’m not even going to think about it. I’m just going to have a nice cup of tea and watch
Morning Coffee
and blank my mind out completely.

As I go into the kitchen, Dad’s sitting at the table, reading the paper. There’s the smell of toast in the air, and Radio Four in the background. Just like when I was younger and lived at home. Life was simple then. No bills, no demands, no threatening letters. An enormous wave of nostalgia overcomes me, and I turn away to fill the kettle, blinking slightly.

“Interesting news,” says Dad, jabbing at
The Daily Telegraph
.

“Oh yes?” I say, putting a tea bag in a mug. “What’s that?”

“Scottish Prime has taken over Flagstaff Life.”

“Oh right,” I say vaguely. “Right. Yes, I think I’d heard that was going to happen.”

“All the Flagstaff Life investors are going to receive huge windfall payments. The biggest ever, apparently.”

“Gosh,” I say, trying to sound interested. I reach for a copy of
Good Housekeeping
, flick it open, and begin to read my horoscope.

But something’s niggling at my mind. Flagstaff Life. Why does that sound familiar? Who was I talking to about . . .

“Martin and Janice next door!” I exclaim suddenly. “They’re with Flagstaff Life! Have been for fifteen years.”

“Then they’ll do very well,” says Dad. “The longer you’ve been with them, the more you get, apparently.”

He turns the page with a rustle, and I sit down at the table with my cup of tea and a
Good Housekeeping
article on making Easter cakes. It’s not fair, I find myself thinking resentfully. Why can’t I get a windfall payment? Why doesn’t Endwich Bank get taken over? Then they could pay me a windfall big enough to wipe out my overdraft.

“Any plans for the day?” says Dad, looking up.

“Not really,” I say, and take a sip of tea.