Confessions of a Shopaholic (37 page)

His mouth is on mine, gently parting my lips, and I feel a white-hot dart of excitement. His hands are running down my back and cupping my bottom, fingering under the hem of my skirt. And then he pulls me tightly toward him, and suddenly I’m finding it hard to breathe.

It’s pretty obvious we’re not going to do much talking at all.

MMM.

Bliss.

Lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, feeling all dreamy and smiley and happy, letting the morning sunlight play on my closed eyelids. Stretching my arms above my head, then collapsing contentedly onto an enormous mound of pillows. Oh, I feel good. I feel . . . sated. Last night was absolutely . . .

Well, let’s just say it was . . .

Oh, come on. You don’t need to know
that
. Anyway, can’t you use your imagination? Of course you can.

I open my eyes, sit up, and reach for my cup of room-service coffee. Luke’s in the shower, so it’s just me alone with my thoughts. And I don’t want to sound all pretentious here—but I do feel this is a pretty significant day in my life.

It’s not just Luke—although the whole thing was . . . well, amazing, actually. God, he really knows how to . . .

Anyway. Not the point. The point is, it’s not just Luke, and it’s not just my new job with
Morning Coffee
(even though every time I remember it, I feel a leap of disbelieving joy).

No, it’s more than that. It’s that I feel like a completely new person. I feel as though I’m moving on to a new stage in life—with a different outlook, and different priorities. When I look back at the frivolous way I used to think—well, it makes me want to laugh, really. The new Rebecca is so much more levelheaded. So much more responsible. It’s as though the tinted glasses have fallen off—and suddenly I can see what’s really important in the world and what’s not.

I’ve even been thinking this morning that I might go into politics or something. Luke and I discussed politics a bit last night, and I have to say, I came up with lots of interesting views. I could be a young, intellectual member of parliament, and be interviewed about lots of important issues on television. I’d probably specialize in health, or education, or something like that. Maybe foreign affairs.

Casually I reach for the remote control and switch on the television, thinking I might watch the news. I flick a few times, trying to find BBC1, but the TV seems stuck on rubbish cable channels. Eventually I give up, leave it on something called QVT or something, and lean back down on my pillows.

The truth, I think, taking a sip of coffee, is that I’m quite a serious-minded person. That’s probably why Luke and I get on so well.

Mmm, Luke. Mmm, that’s a nice thought. I wonder where he is.

I sit up in bed, and am just considering going into the bathroom to surprise him, when a woman’s voice from the television attracts my attention.

“. . . offering genuine NK Malone sunglasses, in tortoiseshell, black, and white, with that distinctive NKM logo in brushed chrome.”

That’s interesting, I think idly. NK Malone sunglasses. I’ve always quite wanted a pair of those.

“Buy all three pairs . . .” the woman pauses “. . . and pay not £400. Not £300. But £200! A saving of at least 40 percent off the recommended retail price.”

I stare at the screen, riveted.

But this is incredible.
Incredible
. Do you know how much NK Malone sunglasses usually cost? At least 140 quid. Each! Which means you’re saving . . .

“Send no money now,” the woman is saying. “Simply call this number . . .”

Excitedly I scrabble for the notebook on my bedside table and scribble down the number. This is an absolute dream come true. NK Malone sunglasses. I can’t quite believe it. And three pairs! I’ll never have to buy sunglasses again. People will call me the Girl in the NK Malone Shades. (And those Armani ones I bought last year are all wrong now. Completely out of date.) Oh, this is
such
an investment. With shaking hands I reach for the phone and dial the number.

And then I stop.

Wait just a moment. The new Rebecca has more self-control than this. The new Rebecca isn’t even
interested
in fashion.

Slowly I put the phone down. I reach for the remote and zap the TV to a different channel. A nature program. Yes, that’s more like it. There’s a close-up of a tiny green frog and a sober voice-over talking about the effect of drought on the ecosystem. I turn up the volume and settle back, pleased with myself. This is much more me. I’m not going to give those sunglasses a second thought. I’m going to learn about this tiny frog and the ecosystem, and global warming. Maybe Luke and I will talk about all these important issues, over breakfast.

NK Malone.

Stop it.
Stop
it. Watch the frog, and that tiny red beetle thing . . .

I’ve wanted NK Malone sunglasses for so long. And £200 is amazing value for three pairs.

I could always give one pair away as a present.

And I deserve a little treat, don’t I? After everything I’ve been though? Just one little final luxury and that’s the end. I
promise
.

Grabbing the phone, I redial the number. I give my name and address, thank the woman very much indeed, then put down the receiver, a content smile on my face. This day is turning out perfect. And it’s only nine o’clock!

I turn off the nature program, snuggle back down under the covers, and close my eyes. Maybe Luke and I will spend all day here, in this lovely room. Maybe we’ll have oysters and champagne sent up. (I hope not, actually, because I hate oysters.) Maybe we’ll . . .

Nine o’clock
, interrupts a little voice in my mind. I frown for a second, shake my head, then turn over to get rid of it. But it’s still there, prodding annoyingly at my thoughts.

Nine o’clock. Nine . . .

And suddenly I sit bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide in dismay. Oh my God.

Nine-thirty.

Derek Smeath.

I promised to be there. I
promised
. And here I am, with half an hour to go, all the way over at the Ritz. Oh God. What am I going to do?

I switch off the TV, bury my head in my hands, and try to think calmly and rationally. OK, if I got going straight away, I might make it. If I got dressed as quickly as possible, and ran downstairs and jumped in a taxi—I might just make it. Fulham’s not that far away. And I could be a quarter of an hour late, couldn’t I? We could still have the meeting. It could still happen.

In theory, it could still happen.

“Hi,” says Luke, putting his head round the bathroom door. He’s got a white towel wrapped round his body, and a few drops of water are glistening on his shoulders. I never even noticed his shoulders last night, I think, staring at them. God, they’re bloody sexy. In fact, all in all, he’s pretty damn . . .

“Rebecca? Is everything OK?”

“Oh,” I say, starting slightly. “Yes, everything’s great. Lovely! Oh, and guess what? I just bought the most wonderful . . .”

And then for some reason I stop myself midstream.

I’m not exactly sure why.

“Just . . . having breakfast,” I say instead, and gesture to the room-service tray. “Delicious.”

A faintly puzzled look passes over Luke’s face, and he disappears back into the bathroom. OK, quick, I tell myself. What am I doing to do? Am I going to get dressed and go? Am I going to make the meeting?

But my hand’s already reaching for my bag as though it’s got a will of its own; I’m pulling out a business card and punching a number into the phone.

Because, I mean, we don’t actually
need
to have a meeting, do we? I’m going to send him a nice big check.

And I’d probably never make it in time, anyway.

And he probably won’t even mind. He’s probably got loads of other stuff he’d prefer to be doing instead.

“Hello?” I say into the phone, and feel a tingle of pleasure as Luke comes up behind me and begins to nuzzle my ear. “Hello, yes. I’d . . . I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Smeath.”

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

7 April 2000

Dear Rebecca:

I write to acknowledge receipt of 136 completed Fine Frames (“Sherborne” style—blue). Thank you very much for your fine work. A check for £272 is enclosed, together with an application form for your next frame-making pack.

Our quality control manager, Mrs. Sandra Rowbotham, has asked me to inform you that she was extremely impressed with the quality of your first batch. Novices rarely come up to the exacting standards of the Fine Frames Quality Promise—it is clear you have a natural gift for frame-making.

I would therefore like to invite you to come and demonstrate your technique at our next Framemakers’ Convention, to be held in Wilmslow on June 21. This is an occasion when all the members of the Fine Frames homeworking family gather under one roof, with a chance to exchange frame-making tips and anecdotes. It’s a lot of fun, believe me!

We very much look forward to hearing from you.

Happy frame-making!

Malcolm Headley

Managing Director

P.S. Are you the same Rebecca Bloomwood who gives advice on
Morning Coffee
?

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

10 April 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Thank you for your recent deposit of £1,000.

Bearing in mind the relatively healthy state of your current account at the present time, I suggest that we might postpone our meeting for the moment.

However, be assured that I shall be keeping a close eye on the situation and will be in touch, should matters change in any way.

With best wishes.

Yours sincerely,

Derek Smeath

Manager

P.S. I look forward to your next performance on
Morning Coffee
.

Warmest thanks to Susan Kamil and Zoë Rice for all their guidance, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Also to Kim Witherspoon and David Forrer, Celia Hayley, Mark Lucas and all at LAW, all at Transworld, Valerie Hoskins and Rebecca Watson and Brian Siberell at CAA.

Special thanks to Samantha Wickham, Sarah Manser, Paul Watts, Chantal Rutherford-Brown, my wonderful family, and especially Gemma, who taught me how to shop.

This book is dedicated to my friend and agent, Araminta Whitley.