Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (2 page)

“I dunno,” she says vaguely. “I suppose I still do what they taught us at Miss Burton’s. You work out an outfit for each occasion—and stick to that.” She begins to tick off on her fingers. “Like . . . driving outfit, dinner, sitting by the pool, game of tennis . . .” She looks up. “Oh yes, and each garment should be used at least three times.”

God, Suze is a genius. She knows all this kind of stuff. Her parents sent her to Miss Burton’s Academy when she was eighteen, which is some posh place in London where they teach you things like how to talk to a bishop and get out of a sports car in a miniskirt. She knows how to make a rabbit out of chicken wire, too.

Quickly I start to jot some broad headings on a piece of paper. This is much more like it. Much better than randomly stuffing things into a case. This way, I won’t have any superfluous clothes, just the bare minimum.

Outfit 1: Sitting by pool (sunny).

Outfit 2: Sitting by pool (cloudy).

Outfit 3: Sitting by pool (bottom looks huge in morning).

Outfit 4: Sitting by pool (someone else has same swimsuit).

Outfit 5:

The phone rings in the hall, but I barely look up. I can hear Suze talking excitedly—then a moment later, she appears in the doorway, her face all pink and pleased.

“Guess what?” she says. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Box Beautiful has sold out of my frames! They just phoned up to order some more!”

“Oh, Suze! That’s fantastic!” I shriek.

“I know!” She comes running over, and we have a big hug, and sort of dance about, before she realizes she’s holding a cigarette and is about to burn my hair.

The amazing thing is, Suze only started making photograph frames a few months ago—but already she’s supplying four shops in London, and they’re doing really well! She’s been in loads of magazines, and everything. Which isn’t surprising, because her frames are
so
cool. Her latest range is in purple tweed, and they come in these gorgeous gray sparkly boxes, all wrapped in bright turquoise tissue paper. (I helped choose the exact color, by the way.) She’s so successful, she doesn’t even make them all herself anymore, but sends off her designs to a little workshop in Kent, and they come back, all made up.

“So, have you finished working your wardrobe out?” she says, taking a drag on her cigarette.

“Yes,” I say, brandishing my sheet of paper at her. “I’ve got it all sorted out. Down to every last pair of socks.”

“Well done!”

“And the
only
thing I need to buy,” I add casually, “is a pair of lilac sandals.”

“Lilac sandals?”

“Mmm?” I look up innocently. “Yes. I need some. You know, just a nice cheap little pair to pull a couple of outfits together . . .”

“Oh right,” says Suze, and pauses, frowning slightly. “Bex . . . weren’t you talking about a pair of lilac sandals last week? Really expensive, from LK Bennett?”

“Was I?” I feel myself flush a little. “I . . . I don’t remember. Maybe. Anyway—”

“Bex.” Suze gives me a suddenly suspicious look. “Now tell me the truth. Do you really
need
a pair of lilac sandals? Or do you just want them?”

“No!” I say defensively. “I really need them! Look!”

I take out my clothes plan, unfold it, and show it to Suze. I have to say, I’m quite proud of it. It’s quite a complicated flow chart, all boxes and arrows and red asterisks.

“Wow!” says Suze. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“At university,” I say modestly. I got my degree in Business and Accounting—and it’s amazing how often it comes in handy.

“What’s this box?” she asks, pointing at the page.

“That’s . . .” I squint at it, trying to remember. “I think that’s if we go out to some really smart restaurant and I’ve already worn my Whistles dress the night before.”

“And this one?”

“That’s if we go rock-climbing. And this”—I point to an empty box—“is where I need a pair of lilac sandals. If I don’t have them, then this outfit won’t work, and neither will this one . . . and the whole thing will disintegrate. I might as well not bother going.”

Suze is silent for a while, perusing my clothes plan while I bite my lip anxiously and cross my fingers behind my back.

I know this may seem a little unusual. I know most people don’t run every single purchase past their flatmate. But the fact is, a while ago I kind of made Suze a little promise, which was that I’d let her keep tabs on my shopping. You know. Just keep an eye on things.

Don’t get the wrong idea here. It’s not like I have a problem or anything. It’s just that a few months ago, I did get into a . . . Well. A very slight money scrape. It was really just a tiny blip—nothing to worry about. But Suze got really freaked out when she found out how much I owed, and said that for my own good, she’d vet all my spending from now on.

And she’s been as good as her word. She’s very strict, actually. Sometimes I’m really quite scared she might say no.

“I see what you mean,” she says at last. “You haven’t really got a choice, have you?”

“Exactly,” I say in relief. I take the plan from her, fold it up, and put it into my bag.

“Hey, Bex, is that new?” says Suze suddenly. She pulls my wardrobe door open and I feel a twinge of nerves. She’s frowning at my lovely new honey-colored coat, which I smuggled into the flat the other day when she was in the bath.

I mean, obviously I was planning to tell her about it. I just never got round to it.

Please don’t look at the price tag, I think feverishly. Please don’t look at the price tag.

“Erm . . . yes,” I say. “Yes, it is new. But the thing is . . . I need a good coat, in case I get asked to do an outside broadcast for
Morning Coffee
.”

“Is that likely?” asks Suze, puzzledly. “I mean, I thought your job was just sitting in the studio, giving financial advice.”

“Well . . . you never know. It’s always best to be prepared.”

“I suppose so . . .” says Suze doubtfully. “And what about this top?” She pulls at a hanger. “That’s new, too!”

“That’s to wear on the show,” I reply promptly.

“And this skirt?”

“For the show.”

“And these new trousers?”

“For the—”

“Bex.” Suze looks at me with narrowed eyes. “How many outfits have you got to wear on the show?”

“Well—you know,” I say defensively. “I need a few backups. I mean, Suze, this is my career we’re talking about. My
career
.”

“Yes,” says Suze eventually. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She reaches for my new red silk jacket. “This is nice.”

“I know,” I beam. “I bought it to wear on my January special!”

“Have you got a January special?” says Suze. “Ooh, what’s it about?”

“It’s going to be called
Becky’s Fundamental Financial Principles
,” I say, reaching for my lip gloss. “It should be really good. Five ten-minute slots, just me!”

“So—what
are
your fundamental financial principles?” asks Suze interestedly.

“Erm . . . well, I haven’t really got any yet,” I say, carefully painting my lips. “But you know. I’ll work them out a bit nearer the time.” I snap my lip gloss shut and reach for my jacket. “See you later.”

“OK,” says Suze. “And remember. Just one pair of shoes!”

“All right! I promise!”

It’s really sweet of Suze to be so concerned about me. But she doesn’t need to be. To be honest, she doesn’t really understand what a changed person I am. OK, I did have a very slight financial crisis earlier this year. In fact, at one point, I was in debt by . . . Well. Really quite a lot.

But then I landed my job on
Morning Coffee
, and everything changed. I turned my life around completely, worked really hard, and paid off all my debts. Yes, I paid them all off! I wrote out check after check—and cleared every single outstanding credit card, every store card, every scribbled IOU to Suze. (She couldn’t believe it when I presented her with a check for several hundred pounds. At first she didn’t want to take it, but then she changed her mind and went out and bought this most amazing sheepskin coat.)

Honestly, paying off those debts was the most wonderful, exhilarating feeling in the world. It was a few months ago now—but I still feel high as I think about it. There’s really nothing to beat being completely and utterly financially solvent, is there?

And just look at me now. I’m a completely different person from the old Becky. I’m a reformed character. I haven’t even got an overdraft!

WELL, OK. I have got a bit of an overdraft. But the only reason is, I’ve been taking the long view recently, and investing quite heavily in my career. Luke, my boyfriend, is an entrepreneur. He’s got his own financial PR company and everything. And he said something a few weeks ago which really made sense to me: “People who want to make a million borrow a million first.”

Honestly, I must have a naturally entrepreneurial mind or something, because as soon as he said it, I felt this amazing chord of recognition. I even found myself murmuring it aloud. He’s so right. How can you expect to make any money if you don’t spend it first?

So I’ve invested in quite a few outfits to wear on television—plus a few good haircuts, and quite a few manicures and facials. And a couple of massages. Because everyone knows you can’t perform well if you’re all stressed.

I’ve also invested in a new computer, which cost £2,000—but is an essential item because guess what? I’m writing a self-help book! Just after I’d become a regular on
Morning Coffee
, I met these really nice publishers, who took me out to lunch and said I was an inspiration to financially challenged people everywhere. Wasn’t that nice? They paid me £1,000 before I’d even written a word—and I get a lot more when it’s actually published. The book’s going to be called
Becky Bloomwood’s Guide to Money
. Or possibly
Manage Money the Becky Bloomwood Way
.

I haven’t quite had time to start writing it yet, but I really think the most important thing is to get the title right, and then the rest will just fall into place. And I’ve already jotted down
loads
of ideas about what to wear in the author photograph.

So basically, it’s no surprise that I’m a little overdrawn at the moment. But the point is, all that money is out there, working for me. And luckily my bank manager, Derek Smeath, is very sympathetic to my needs. He’s a real sweetie, actually. For a long time we didn’t get on at all—which I think was more a communications problem than anything else. But then we met up and had a nice long chat (plus I gave him some advice on what to buy his wife for Christmas) and now I really think he understands where I’m coming from. And the truth is, of course, I’m a lot more sensible than I used to be.

For example, I have a completely different attitude toward shopping. My new motto is “Buy Only What You Need.” I know, it sounds almost
too
simple—but it really does work. Before each purchase, I ask myself one question: “Do I
need
this?” And only if the answer is yes do I make the purchase. It’s all just a matter of self-discipline.

So, for example, when I get to LK Bennett, I’m incredibly focused and direct. As I walk in, a pair of high-heeled red boots catches my eye—but I quickly look away and head straight for the display of sandals. This is how I shop these days: no pausing, no browsing, no eyeing up other items. Not even that gorgeous new range of sequined pumps over there. I simply go straight to the sandals I want, take them from the rack, and say to the assistant, “I’d like to have these in a six, please.”

Direct and to the point. Just buy what you need and nothing else. This is the key to controlled shopping. I’m not even going to
glance
at those cool pink stilettos, even though they’d match my new pink denim skirt perfectly.

Nor those slingbacks with the glittery heels.

They are nice though, aren’t they? I wonder what they look like on?

Oh God. This is really hard.

What
is
it about shoes? I mean, I like most kinds of clothes, but a good pair of shoes can just reduce me to jelly. Sometimes, when Suze isn’t at home, I open my wardrobe and just
stare
at all my pairs of shoes, like some mad collector. And once I lined them all up on my bed and took a photograph of them. Which might seem a bit weird—but I thought, I’ve got loads of photos of people I don’t really like, so why not take one of something I really love?

“Here you are!”

Thank goodness, the assistant is back, with my lilac sandals in a box—and as I see them, my heart leaps. Oh, these are gorgeous.
Gorgeous
. All delicate and strappy, with a tiny little blackberry by the toe. I fell in love with them as soon as I saw them. They’re a bit expensive—but then, everyone knows you should never skimp on shoes, because you’ll hurt your feet.

I slip my feet into them with a frisson of delight—and they’re just fantastic. My feet suddenly look elegant, and my legs look longer . . . and OK, it’s a tiny bit difficult to walk in them, but that’s probably because the shop floor is all slippery.

“I’ll take them, please,” I say, and beam happily at the assistant.

You see, this is the reward for taking such a controlled approach to shopping. When you buy something, you really feel as though you’ve
earned
it.

We both head toward the checkout, and I keep my eyes carefully away from the rack of accessories. In fact, I barely even notice that purple bag with the jet beading. And I’m just reaching for my wallet, congratulating myself on being so single-minded, when the assistant says conversationally, “You know, we’ve got these sandals in clementine, as well.”

Clementine?

“Oh . . . right,” I say after a pause.

I’m not interested. I’ve got what I came in to buy—and that’s the end of the story. Lilac sandals. Not clementine.

“They’ve just come in,” she adds, rooting around on the floor. “I think they’re going to be even more popular than the lilac.”

“Really?” I say, trying to sound as indifferent as I can. “Well, I’ll just take these, I think . . .”