Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (48 page)

“What, this minute?”

“Why not?”

I pick up the phone again, reach for an old bank statement, and dial the Endwich number.

“You see, there really isn't a problem,” I say reassuringly. “One little phone call is all it'll take.”

“Your call is being transferred to the Central Endwich Call Center,” comes a tinny voice down the line. “Kindly memorize the following number for future use: 0800 . . .”

“What's going on?” says Suze.

“I'm being transferred to some central system,” I say, as Vivaldi's
Four Seasons
starts to play. “They'll probably be really quick and efficient. This is great, isn't it? Doing it all over the phone.”

“Welcome to Endwich Bank!” says a new woman's voice in my ear. “Please key in your account number.”

What's my account number? Shit! I've got no idea—

Oh yes. On my bank statement.

“Thank you!” says a voice as I finish pressing the numbers. “Now please key in your personal identification number.”

What?

Personal identification number? I didn't know I had a personal identification number. Honestly! They never told me—

Actually . . . maybe that does ring a slight bell.

Oh God. What was it again? Seventy-three-something? Thirty-seven-something?

“Please key in your personal identification number,” repeats the voice pleasantly.

“But I don't
know
my bloody personal identification number!” I say. “Quick, Suze, if you were me, what would you choose as a personal identification number?”

“Ooh!” says Suze. “Um . . . I'd choose . . . um . . . 1234?”

“Please key in your personal identification number,” says the voice, with a definite edge to it this time.

God, this is really stressful.

“Try my number for my bicycle lock,” suggests Suze. “It's 435.”

“Suze—I need
my
number. Not yours.”

“You might have chosen the same! You never know!”

“Please key in—”

“All right!” I yell, and punch in 435.

“I'm sorry,” intones the voice. “This password is invalid.”

“I knew it wouldn't work!”

“It might have done!” says Suze defensively.

“It should be four digits, anyway,” I say, having a sudden flash of memory. “I had to phone up and register it . . . and I was standing in the kitchen . . . and . . . yes! Yes! I'd just got my new Karen Millen shoes, and I was looking at the price tag . . . and that was the number I used!”

“How much were they?” says Suze in excitement.

“They were . . . £120 reduced to . . . to £84.99!”

“Punch it in! 8499!”

Excitedly I punch in 8499—and to my disbelief, the voice says, “Thank you! You are through to the Endwich Banking Corporation. Endwich—because we care. For debt control, press one. For mortgage arrears, press two. For overdrafts and bank charges, press three. For . . .''

“Right! I'm through.” I exhale sharply, feeling a bit like James Bond breaking the code to save the world. “Am I debt control? Or overdrafts and bank charges?”

“Overdrafts and bank charges,” says Suze knowledgeably.

“OK.” I press three and a moment later a cheerful singsong voice greets me.

“Hello! Welcome to the Endwich Central Call Center. I'm Dawna, how can I help you, Miss Bloomwood?''

“Oh, hi!” I say, taken aback. “Are you real?”

“Yes!” says Dawna, and laughs. “I'm real. Can I help you?”

“Erm . . . yes. I'm phoning because I need an extension to my overdraft. A few hundred pounds if that's all right. Or, you know, more, if you've got it . . .”

“I see,” says Dawna pleasantly. “Was there a specific reason? Or just a general need?”

She sounds so nice and friendly, I feel myself start to relax.

“Well, the thing is, I've had to invest quite a bit in my career recently, and a few bills have come in, and kind of . . . taken me by surprise.”

“Oh right,” says Dawna sympathetically.

“I mean, it's not as if I'm in
trouble.
It's just a temporary thing.”

“A temporary thing,” she echoes, and I hear her typing in the background.

“I suppose I have been letting things mount up a bit. But the thing was, I paid everything off! I thought I'd be able to relax for a bit!”

“Oh right.”

“So you understand?” I give a relieved beam to Suze, who offers me thumbs-up in return. This is more like it. Just one quick and easy call, like in the adverts. No nasty letters, no tricky questions . . .

“I completely understand,” Dawna's saying. “It happens to us all, doesn't it?”

“So—can I have the overdraft?” I say joyfully.

“Oh, I'm not authorized to extend your overdraft by more than £50,” says Dawna in surprise. “You'll have to get in touch with your branch overdraft facilities director. Who is a . . . let me see . . . Fulham . . . a Mr. John Gavin.”

I stare at the phone in dismay.

“But I've already written to him!”

“Well, that's all right, then, isn't it? Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” I say. “No, I don't think so. Thanks anyway.”

I put down the phone disconsolately.

“Stupid bank. Stupid call center.”

“So are they going to give you the money?” asks Suze.

“I don't know. It all depends on this John Gavin bloke.” I look up and see Suze's anxious face. “But I'm sure he'll say yes,” I add hastily. “He's just got to review my file. It'll be fine!”

“I suppose if you just don't spend anything for a while, you'll easily get back on track, won't you?” she says hopefully. “I mean, you're making loads of money from the telly, aren't you?”

“Yes,” I say after a pause, not liking to tell her that after rent, taxi fares, meals out, and outfits for the show, it doesn't actually amount to that much.

“And there's your book, too . . .”

“My book?”

For a moment I stare at her blankly. Then suddenly, with a lift of the heart, I remember. Of course! My self-help book! I've been meaning to do something about that.

Well, thank God. This is the answer. All I have to do is write my book really quickly and get a nice big check—and then I'll pay all these cards off and everything will be happy again. Ha. I don't need any stupid overdraft. I'll start straight away. This evening!

And the truth is, I'm rather looking forward to getting down to my book. I have so many important themes I want to address in it, like poverty and wealth, comparative religion, philosophy maybe. I mean, I know the publishers have just asked for a simple self-help book, but there's no reason why I can't encompass broader questions too, is there?

In fact, if it does really well, I might give lectures. God, that would be great, wouldn't it? I could become a kind of lifestyle guru and tour the world, and people would flock to see me, and ask my advice on all sorts of issues—

“How's it going?” says Suze, appearing at my door in a towel, and I jump guiltily. I've been sitting at my computer for quite a while now but I haven't actually turned it on.

“I'm just thinking,” I say, hastily reaching to the back of the computer and flipping the switch. “You know, focusing my thoughts and . . . and letting the creative juices meld into a coherent pattern.”

“Wow,” says Suze, and looks at me in slight awe. “That's amazing. Is it hard?”

“Not really,” I say, after a bit of thought. “It's quite easy, actually.”

The computer suddenly bursts into a riot of sound and color, and we both stare at it, mesmerized.

“Wow!” says Suze again. “Did you do that?”

“Erm . . . yes,” I say. Which is true. I mean, I did switch it on.

“God, you're so clever, Bex,” breathes Suze. “When do you think you'll finish it?”

“Oh, quite soon, I expect,” I say breezily. “You know. Once I get going.”

“Well, I'll leave you to get on with it, then,” says Suze. “I just wanted to borrow a dress for tonight.”

“Oh right,” I say, with interest. “Where are you going?”

“Venetia's party,” says Suze. “D'you want to come too? Oh, go on, come! Everyone's going!”

For a moment I'm tempted. I've met Venetia a few times, and I know she gives amazing parties at her parents' house in Kensington.

“No,” I say at last. “I'd better not. I've got work to do.”

“Oh well.” Suze's face droops briefly. “But I can borrow a dress, can I?”

“Of course!” I screw up my face for a moment, thinking hard. “Why don't you wear my new Tocca dress with your red shoes and my English Eccentrics wrap?”

“Excellent!” says Suze, going to my wardrobe. “Thanks, Bex. And . . . could I borrow some knickers?” she adds casually. “And some tights and makeup?”

I turn in my chair and give her a close look.

“Suze—when you decluttered your room, did you keep
anything
?”

“Of course I did!” she says, a little defensively. “You know. A few things.” She meets my gaze. “OK, perhaps I went a bit too far.”

“Do you have
any
underwear left?”

“Well . . . no. But you know, I feel so good, and kind of positive about life—it doesn't matter! It's feng shui. You should try it!”

I watch as Suze gathers up the dress and underwear and rifles through my makeup bag. Then she leaves the room and I stretch my arms out in front of me, flexing my fingers. Right. To work.

I open a file, type “Chapter One,” and stare at it proudly. Chapter One! This is so cool! Now all I have to do is come up with a really memorable, striking opening sentence.

I sit quite still for a while, concentrating on the empty screen in front of me, then type briskly,

Finance is the

I stop, and take a sip of Diet Coke. Obviously the right sentence takes a bit of honing. You can't just expect it to land straight in your head.

Finance is the most

God, I wish I were writing a book about clothes. Or makeup.
Becky Bloomwood's Guide to Lipstick.

Anyway, I'm not. So concentrate.

Finance is something which

You know, my chair's quite uncomfortable. I'm sure it can't be healthy, sitting on a squashy chair like this for hours on end. I'll get repetitive strain injury, or something. Really, if I'm going to be a writer, I should invest in one of those ergonomic ones which swivel round and go up and down.

Finance is very

Maybe they sell chairs like that on the Internet. Maybe I should just have a quick little look. Since the computer's on, and everything.

In fact—surely it would be irresponsible of me if I didn't. I mean, you have to look after yourself, don't you?
Mens sana in healthy sana,
or whatever it is.

I reach for my mouse, quickly click onto the Internet icon, and search for “office chairs”—and soon I'm coasting happily through the list. And I've already noted down a few good possibilities—when all of a sudden I land on this incredible Web site which I've never seen before, all full of office supplies. Not just boring white envelopes, but really amazing high-tech stuff. Like smart chrome filing cabinets, and cool pen holders, and really nice personalized nameplates to put on your door.

I scroll through all the photographs, utterly mesmerized. I mean, I know I'm not supposed to be spending money at the moment—but this is different. This is investment in my career. After all—this is my office, isn't it? It should be well equipped. It
needs
to be well equipped. In fact, I can't believe how shortsighted I've been. How on earth was I expecting to write a book without the necessary equipment? It would be like climbing Everest without a tent.

I'm so dazzled by the array of stuff you can get that I almost can't decide what to get. But there are a few essentials which I absolutely must buy.

So I click on an ergonomic swivel chair upholstered in purple to match my iMac, plus a Dictaphone which translates stuff straight into your computer. And then I find myself adding a really cool steel claw which holds up notes while you're typing, a set of laminated presentation folders—which are bound to come in useful—and a mini paper shredder. Which is a complete essential because I don't want the whole world seeing my first drafts, do I? And I'm toying with the idea of some modular reception furniture—except I don't really have a reception area in my bedroom—when Suze comes back into the room.

“Hi! How's it going?”

I jump guiltily, quickly click on “send” without even bothering to check what the final amount was, click off the Internet—and look up just as my Chapter One reappears on the screen.

“You're working really hard!” says Suze, shaking her head. “You should take a break. How much have you done?”

“Oh . . . quite a lot,” I say.

“Can I read it?” And to my horror she starts coming toward me.

“No!” I exclaim. “I mean—it's a work in progress. It's . . . sensitive material.” Hastily I close the document and stand up. “You look really great, Suze. Fantastic!”

“Thanks!” She beams at me and twirls around in my dress as the doorbell rings. “Ooh! That'll be Fenny.”

Fenella is one of Suze's weird posh cousins from Scotland. Except to be fair, she's not actually that weird anymore. She used to be as peculiar as her brother, Tarquin, and spend the whole time riding horses and shooting fish, or whatever they do. But recently she's moved to London and got a job in an art gallery, and now she just goes to parties instead. As Suze opens the front door I can hear her high-pitched voice—and a whole gaggle of girls' voices following her. Fenny can't move three feet without a huge cloud of shrieking people around her. She's like some socialite version of a rain god.

“Hi!” she says, bursting into my room. She's wearing a really nice pink velvet skirt from Whistles, which I've also got—but she's teamed it with a disastrous brown Lurex polo neck. “Hi, Becky! Are you coming tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I say. “I've got to work.”

“Oh well.” Fenella's face droops just like Suze's did—then brightens. “Then can I borrow your Jimmy Choos? We've got the same size feet, haven't we?”

“OK,” I say. “They're in the wardrobe.” I hesitate, trying to be tactful. “And do you want to borrow a top? It's just I've actually got the top that goes with your skirt. Pink cashmere with little beads. Really nice.”