Confessions of a Shopaholic (31 page)

“So,” says Zelda, leading me toward a girl with red hair. “Chloe will do your makeup, and then we’ll pop you along to wardrobe. OK?”

“Fine,” I say, my eyes widening as I take in Chloe’s collection of makeup. There’s about a zillion brushes, pots, and tubes littered over the counter in front of us, all really good brands like Chanel and MAC.

“Now, about your slot,” continues Zelda as I sit down on a swivel chair. “As I say, we’ve gone for a rather different format from the one we talked about previously . . .”

“Zelda!” comes a man’s voice from outside. “Bella’s on the line for you!”

“Oh shit,” says Zelda. “Look, Rebecca, I’ve got to go and take this call, but I’ll come back as soon as I can. OK?”

“Fine!” I say happily, as Chloe drapes a cape round me and pulls my hair back into a wide towel band. In the background, the radio’s playing my favorite song by Lenny Kravitz.

“I’ll just cleanse and tone, and then give you a base,” says Chloe. “If you could shut your eyes . . .”

I close my eyes and, after a few seconds, feel a cool, creamy liquid being massaged into my face. It’s the most delicious sensation in the world. I could sit here all day.

“So,” says Chloe after a while. “What are you on the show for?”

“Errm . . . finance,” I say vaguely. “A piece on finance.”

To be honest, I’m feeling so relaxed, I can hardly remember what I’m doing here.

“Oh, yeah,” says Chloe, efficiently smoothing foundation over my face. “They were talking earlier about some financial thing.” She reaches for a palette of eyeshadows, blends a couple of colors together, then picks up a brush. “So, are you a financial expert, then?”

“Well,” I say, a little awkwardly. “You know.”

“Wow,” says Chloe, starting to apply eyeshadow to my eyelids. “I don’t understand the first thing about money.”

“Me neither!” chimes in a dark-haired girl from across the room. “My accountant’s given up trying to explain it all to me. As soon he says the word ‘tax-year,’ my mind glazes over.”

I’m about to reply sympathetically “Me too!” and launch into a nice girly chat—but then I stop myself. The memory of Janice and Martin is a bit too raw for me to be flippant.

“You probably know quite a lot more about your finances than you realize,” I say instead. “If you
really
don’t know . . . then you should take advice from someone who does.”

“You mean a financial expert like you?” says the girl.

I smile back, trying to look confident—but all this talk of my being a “financial expert” is unnerving me. I feel as though any minute now, someone’s going to walk in, ask me an impossible question about South African bond yields, and then denounce me as a fraud. Thank goodness I know exactly what I’m going to say on air.

“Sorry, Rebecca,” says Chloe, “I’m going to have to interrupt. Now, I was thinking a raspberry red for the lips. Is that OK by you?”

What with all this chatting, I haven’t really been paying attention to what she’s been doing to my face. But as I look at my reflection properly, I can’t quite believe it. My eyes are huge; I’ve suddenly got amazing cheekbones . . . honestly, I look like a different person. Why on earth don’t I wear makeup like this every day?

“Wow!” I breathe.

“It’s easier because you’re so calm,” observes Chloe, reaching into a black vanity case. “We get some people in here, really trembling with nerves. Even celebrities. We can hardly do their makeup.”

“Really?” I say, and lean forward, ready to hear some insider gossip. But Zelda’s voice interrupts us.

“Sorry about that, Rebecca!” she exclaims. “Right, how are we doing? Makeup looks good. What about hair?”

“It’s nicely cut,” says Chloe, picking up a few strands of my hair and dropping them back down again, just like Nicky Clarke on a makeover. “I’ll just give it a blow-dry for sheen.”

“Fine,” says Zelda. “And then we’ll get her along to wardrobe.” She glances at something on her clipboard, then sits down on a swivel chair next to me. “OK, so, Rebecca, we need to talk about your item.”

“Excellent,” I say, matching her businesslike tone. “Well, I’ve prepared it all just as you wanted. Really simple and straightforward.”

“Yup,” says Zelda. “Well, that’s the thing. We had a talk at the meeting yesterday, and you’ll be glad to hear, we don’t need it too basic, after all.” She smiles. “You’ll be able to get as technical as you like!”

“Oh, right,” I say, taken aback. “Well . . . good! That’s great! Although I might still keep it fairly low—”

“We want to avoid talking down to the audience. I mean, they’re not morons!” Zelda lowers her voice slightly. “Plus we had some new audience research in yesterday, and apparently 80 percent of our viewers feel patronized by some or all of the show’s content. Basically, we need to redress that balance. So we’ve had a complete change of plan for your item!” She beams at me. “What we thought is, instead of a simple interview, we’d have more of a high-powered debate.”

“A high-powered debate?” I echo, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel.

“Absolutely!” says Zelda. “What we want is a really heated discussion! Opinions flying, voices raised. That kind of thing.”

Opinions?

“So is that OK?” says Zelda, frowning at me. “You look a bit—”

“I’m fine!” I force myself to smile brightly. “Just . . . looking forward to it! A nice high-powered debate. Great!” I clear my throat. “And . . . and who will I be debating with?”

“A representative from Flagstaff Life,” says Zelda triumphantly. “Head-to-head with the enemy. It’ll make great television!”

“Zelda!” comes a voice from outside the room. “Bella again!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” says Zelda, leaping up. “Rebecca, I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Fine,” I manage. “See you in a minute.”

“OK,” says Chloe cheerfully. “While she’s gone, let me put on that lipstick.”

She reaches for a long brush and begins to paint in my lips, and I stare at my reflection, trying to keep calm, trying not to panic. But my throat’s so tight, I can’t swallow. I’ve never felt so frightened in all my life.

I can’t talk in a high-powered debate!

Why
did I ever want to be on television?

“Rebecca, could you try to keep your lips still?” says Chloe with a puzzled frown. “They’re really shaking.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, staring at my reflection like a frozen rabbit. She’s right, I’m trembling all over. Oh God, this is no good. I’ve got to calm down. Think happy thoughts. Think Zen.

In an effort to distract myself, I focus on the reflection in the mirror. In the background I can see Zelda standing in the corridor, talking into a phone with a furious expression on her face.

“Yup,” I can hear her saying curtly. “Yup. But the point is, Bella, we pay you a retainer to
be
available. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” She looks up, sees someone, and lifts a hand in greeting. “OK, Bella, I do see that . . .”

A blond woman and two men appear in the corridor, and Zelda nods to them apologetically. I can’t see their faces, but they’re all wearing smart overcoats and holding briefcases, and one of the men is holding a folder bulging with papers. The blond woman’s coat is actually rather nice, I find myself thinking. And she’s got a
gorgeous
Louis Vuitton bag. I wonder who she is.

“Yup,” Zelda’s saying. “Yup. Well, if
you
can suggest an alternative phone-in subject . . .”

She raises her eyebrows at the blond woman, who shrugs and turns away to look at a poster on the wall. And as she does so, my heart nearly stops dead.

Because I recognize her. It’s Alicia. Alicia from Brandon Communications is standing five yards away from me.

I almost want to laugh at the incongruity of it. What’s she doing here? What’s Alicia Bitch Long-legs doing here, for God’s sake?

One of the men turns round to say something to her—and as I see his face, I think I recognize him, too. He’s another one of the Brandon C lot, isn’t he? One of those young, eager, baby-faced types.

But what on earth are they all doing here? What’s going on? Surely it can’t be—

They can’t all be here because of—

No. Oh no. Suddenly I feel rather cold.

“Luke!” comes Zelda’s voice from the corridor, and I feel a swoop of dismay. “
So
glad you could make it. We always love having you on the show. You know, I had no idea you represented Flagstaff Life, until Sandy said . . .”

This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

“The journalist who wrote the piece is already here,” Zelda’s saying, “and I’ve primed her on what’s happening. I think it’s going to make really great television, the two of you arguing away!”

She starts moving down the corridor, and in the mirror I see Alicia and the eager young man begin to follow her. Then the third overcoated man starts to come into view. And although my stomach’s churning painfully, I can’t stop myself. I slowly turn my head as he passes the door.

I meet Luke Brandon’s grave, dark eyes and he meets mine, and for a few still seconds, we just stare at each other. Then abruptly he looks away and strides off down the corridor. And I’m left, gazing helplessly at my painted reflection, feeling sick with panic.

POINTS FOR TELEVISION INTERVIEW

SIMPLE AND BASIC FINANCIAL ADVICE

1. Prefer clock/twenty grand? Obvious.

2. Flagstaff Life ripped off innocent customers. Beware.

Ermm . . .

3. Always be very careful with your money.

4. Don’t put it all in one investment but diversify.

5. Don’t lose it by mistake

6. Don’t

THINGS YOU CAN BUY WITH £20,000

1. Nice car; e.g., small BMW

2. Pearl and diamond necklace from Aspreys plus big diamond ring

3. 3 couture evening dresses; e.g., from John Galliano

4. Steinway grand piano

5. 5 gorgeous leather sofas from the Conran shop

6. 40 Gucci watches, plus bag

7. Flowers delivered every month for 42 years

8. 55 pedigree Labrador puppies

9. 80 cashmere jumpers

10. 666 Wonderbras

11. 454 pots Helena Rubinstein moisturizer

12. 800 bottles of champagne

13. 2,860 Fiorentina pizzas

14. 15,384 tubes of Pringles

15. 90,909 packets of Polo mints

16.

BY ELEVEN TWENTY-FIVE, I’M sitting on a brown upholstered chair in the green room. I’m dressed in a midnight-blue Jasper Conran suit, sheer tights, and a pair of suede high heels. What with my makeup and blown-dry hair, I’ve never looked smarter in my life. But I can’t enjoy any of it. All I can think of is the fact that in fifteen minutes, I’ve got to sit on a sofa and discuss high-powered finance with Luke Brandon on live television.

The very thought of it makes me feel like whimpering. Or laughing wildly. I mean, it’s like some kind of sick joke. Luke Brandon against me. Luke Brandon, with his genius IQ and bloody photographic memory—against me. He’ll walk all over me. He’ll
massacre
me.

“Darling, have a croissant,” says Elisabeth Plover, who’s sitting opposite me, munching a
pain au chocolat
. “They’re simply sublime. Every bite like a ray of golden Provençal sun.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I . . . I’m not really hungry.”

I don’t understand how she can eat. I honestly feel as though I’m about to throw up at any moment. How on earth do people appear on television every day? How does Fiona Phillips do it? No wonder they’re all so thin.

“Coming up!” comes Rory’s voice from the television monitor in the corner of the room, and both our heads automatically swivel round to see the screen filled with a picture of the beach at sunset. “What is it like, to live with a gangster and then, risking everything, betray him? Our next guest has written an explosive novel based on her dark and dangerous background . . .”

“. . . And we introduce a new series of in-depth discussions,” chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of pound coins raining onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. “
Morning Coffee
turns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head-to-head in debate.”

Is that me? Oh God, I don’t want to be a leading industry expert. I want to go home and watch reruns of
The Simpsons
.

“But first!” says Rory cheerily. “Scott Robertson’s getting all fired up in the kitchen.”

The picture switches abruptly to a man in a chef’s hat grinning and brandishing a blowtorch. I stare at him for a few moments, then look down again, clenching my hands tightly in my lap. I can’t quite believe that in fifteen minutes it’ll be me up on that screen. Sitting on the sofa. Trying to think of something to say.

To distract myself, I unscrew my crappy piece of paper for the thousandth time and read through my paltry notes. Maybe it won’t be so bad, I find myself thinking hopefully, as my eyes circle the same few sentences again and again. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing. We’ll probably keep the whole thing at the level of a casual chat. Keep it simple and friendly. After all . . .

“Good morning, Rebecca,” comes a voice from the door. Slowly I look up—and as I do so, my heart sinks. Luke Brandon is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing an immaculate dark suit, his hair is shining, and his face is bronze with makeup. There isn’t an ounce of friendliness in his face. His jaw is tight; his eyes are hard and businesslike. As they meet mine, they don’t even flicker.

For a few moments we gaze at each other without speaking. I can hear my pulse beating loudly in my ears; my face feels hot beneath all the makeup. Then, summoning all my inner resources, I force myself to say calmly, “Hello, Luke.”

There’s an interested silence as he walks into the room. Even Elisabeth Plover seems intrigued by him.

“I know that face,” she says, leaning forward. “I know it. You’re an actor, aren’t you? Shakespearean, of course. I believe I saw you in
Lear
three years ago.”

“I don’t think so,” says Luke curtly.

“You’re right!” says Elisabeth, slapping the table. “It was
Hamlet
. I remember it well. The desperate pain, the guilt, the final tragedy . . .” She shakes her head solemnly. “I’ll never forget that voice of yours. Every word was like a stab wound.”