Confessions of a Shopaholic (3 page)

“Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on
Successful Saving
, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” I say, equally coolly.

“It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.”

“No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself.

Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.

“So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the
FT
under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?”

Oh God. What’s she talking about?

“It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?

“I have to say, I think it’s bad news for the industry,” says Alicia earnestly. “But of course, you must have your own views.”

She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again.

“I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

“Were you expecting it?” Alicia says. “I know you journalists are always ahead of the game.”

“I . . . I certainly saw it coming,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I sound convincing.

“And now this rumor about Scottish Prime and Flagstaff Life going the same way!” She looks at me intently. “Do you think that’s really on the cards?”

“It’s . . . it’s difficult to say,” I reply, and take a gulp of champagne. What rumor? Why can’t she leave me alone?

Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He’s staring at me, his mouth twitching slightly. Oh shit. He
knows
I don’t have a clue, doesn’t he?

“Alicia,” he says abruptly, “that’s Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you—”

“Absolutely,” she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly toward the door.

“And Alicia—” adds Luke, and she quickly turns back. “I want to know exactly who fucked up on those figures.”

“Yes,” gulps Alicia, and walks off.

God he’s scary. And now we’re on our own. I think I might quickly run away.

“Well,” I say brightly. “I must just go and . . .”

But Luke Brandon is leaning toward me.

“SBG announced that they’ve taken over Rutland Bank this morning,” he says quietly.

And of course, now that he says it, I remember that front-page headline.

“I know they did,” I reply haughtily. “I read it in the
FT
.” And before he can say anything else, I walk off, to talk to Elly.

As the press conference is about to start, Elly and I sidle toward the back and grab two seats together. We’re in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows, facing a podium and a large screen. I open my notebook, write “Brandon Communications” at the top of the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Elly’s dialing her telephone horoscope on her mobile phone.

I take a sip of champagne, lean back, and prepare to relax. There’s no point listening at press conferences. The information’s always in the press pack, and you can work out what they were talking about later. In fact, I’m wondering whether anyone would notice if I took out a pot of Hard Candy and did my nails, when suddenly the awful Alicia ducks her head down to mine.

“Rebecca?”

“Yes?” I say lazily.

“Phone call for you. It’s your editor.”

“Philip?” I say stupidly. As though I’ve a whole array of editors to choose from.

“Yes.” She looks at me as though I’m a moron and gestures to a phone on a table at the back. Elly gives me a questioning look and I shrug back. Philip’s never phoned me at a press conference before.

I feel rather excited and important as I walk to the back of the room. Perhaps there’s an emergency at the office. Perhaps he’s scooped an incredible story and wants me to fly to New York to follow up a lead.

“Hello, Philip?” I say into the receiver—then immediately I wish I’d said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple “Yep.”

“Rebecca, listen, sorry to be a bore,” says Philip, “but I’ve got a migraine coming on. I’m going to head off home.”

“Oh,” I say puzzledly.

“And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me.”

An errand? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.

“I’m not sure,” I say discouragingly. “I’m a bit tied up here.”

“When you’ve finished there. The Social Security Select Committee is releasing its report at five o’clock. Can you go and pick it up? You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference.”

What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can’t pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf.

“Can’t Clare go?” I say. “I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on . . .” What am I supposed to be writing about this month? “On mortgages.”

“Clare’s got a briefing in the City. And Westminster’s on your way home to Trendy Fulham, isn’t it?”

Philip
always
has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

“You can just hop off the tube,” he’s saying, “pick it up, and hop back on again.”

Oh God. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report. I should just about make it.

“Fine,” I say. “Leave it to me.”

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words
Far Eastern Opportunities
appear on the screen in front of us. There is a colorful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand, and other exotic places, which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can’t relax, or even feel sorry for the new girl from
Portfolio Week
, who’s frantically trying to write everything down and will probably ask five questions because she thinks she should. I’m too concerned about my scarf. What if I don’t make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic.

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring graphs begin, I have a flash of inspiration. Of course! I’ll pay cash for the scarf. No one can argue with cash. I can get £100 out on my cash card, so all I need is another £20, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it “Can you lend me twenty quid?” and pass it to Elly, who’s still surreptitiously listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she’s listening to. It can’t still be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, “No can do. Bloody machine swallowed my card. Living off luncheon vouchers at moment.”

Damn. I hesitate, then write, “What about credit card? I’ll pay you back, honest. And what are you listening to?”

I pass the page to her and suddenly the lights go up. The presentation has ended and I didn’t hear a word of it. People shift around on their seats and a PR girl starts handing out glossy brochures. Elly finishes her call and grins at me.

“Love life prediction,” she says, tapping in another number. “It’s really accurate stuff.”

“Load of old bullshit, more like.” I shake my head disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you go for all that rubbish. Call yourself a financial journalist?”

“No,” says Elly. “Do you?” And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals turns round and gives us an angry glare.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It’s Alicia, standing up at the front of the room. She’s got very good legs, I note resentfully. “As you can see, the Foreland Exotic Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach to investment.” She looks around the room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly.

“Exotic Opportunities,” I whisper scornfully to Elly and point to the leaflet. “Exotic prices, more like. Have you seen how much they’re charging?”

(I always turn to the charges first. Just like I always look at the price tag first.)

Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening to the phone.

“Foreland Investments are all about adding value,” Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. “Foreland Investments offer you more.”

“They charge more, you lose more,” I say aloud without thinking, and there’s a laugh around the room. God, how embarrassing. And now Luke Brandon’s lifting his head, too. Quickly I look down and pretend to be writing notes.

Although to be honest, I don’t know why I even pretend to write notes. It’s not as if we ever put anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments takes out a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month,
and
they took Philip on some fantastic research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year—so we’re never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are. Like that’s really any help to our readers.

As Alicia carries on speaking, I lean toward Elly.

“So, listen,” I whisper. “Can I borrow your credit card?”

“All used up,” hisses Elly apologetically. “I’m up to my limit. Why do you think I’m living off LVs?”

“But I need money!” I whisper. “I’m desperate! I need twenty quid!”

I’ve spoken more loudly than I intended and Alicia stops speaking.

“Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments, Rebecca,” says Alicia, and another titter goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawk at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They’re fellow journalists, for God’s sake. They should be on my side. National Union of Journalists solidarity and all that.

Not that I’ve ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.

“What do you need twenty quid for?” says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.

“I . . . my aunt,” I say defiantly. “She’s in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.”

The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a £20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”

“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.

“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.

Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!

But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.

“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.

The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down—so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.

Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.

As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s
Vogue
, too? I’m about to ask him—then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white)—and something tells me he didn’t.

“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”

“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.

“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.

“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so . . . impotent!”

“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us . . .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It
matters
whether we arrive or not.”

“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”

“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well . . . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”

“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”

He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.

“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”

Oh God.

“I . . . ahm . . . I’m going to . . .”

I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I
can’t
tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.