The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  I reach for my bag and write a cheque out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I'm feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I've still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.

  'Oh, and someone called,' adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. 'Erica Parsnip. Is that right?'

  'Erica Parsnip?' Sometimes I think Suze's mind has been expanded just a little too often.

  'Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.'

  I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.

  'She called here? She called this number?'

  'Yes. This afternoon.'

  'Oh shit.' My heart starts to thump. 'What did you say? Did you say I've got glandular fever?'

  'What?' It's Suze's turn to stare. 'Of course I didn't say you've got bloody glandular fever!'

  'Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?'

  'No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—'

  'Suze!' I wail in dismay.

  'Well, what was I supposed to say?'

  'You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!'

  'Well, thanks for the warning!' Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I've ever known. When she's wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. 'What's the big deal anyway?' she says. 'Are you overdrawn?'

  Am I overdrawn?

  'Just a tad.' I shrug. 'It'll work itself out.'

  There's silence and I look up, to see Suze tearing up my cheque.

  'Suze! Don't be stupid!'

  'Pay me back when you're in the black,' she says firmly.

  'Thanks Suze,' I say, and give her a big hug. Suze has got to be the best friend I've ever had.

  But there's a nagging feeling in my stomach which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can't even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card . . . And now Suze, too.

  It's about . . . let's think . . . it's about six thousand pounds.

  A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find six thousand pounds? I could save six pounds a week for a thousand weeks. Or twelve pounds a week for five hundred weeks. Or . . . or sixty pounds a week for a hundred weeks. That's more like it. But how the hell am I going to find sixty pounds a week to save?

  Or else I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could . . . win the Lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The Lottery is by far the best solution.

  I wouldn't aim to win the jackpot of course – that's completely unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say – a hundred thousand pounds. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat . . .

  Actually – better make it two hundred thousand. Or a quarter of a million.

  Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. 'The five winners will each receive one point three million pounds.' (I love the way they say that. 'One point three.' As if that extra three hundred thousand pounds is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn't notice whether it was there or not.)

  One point three million should see me straight. And it's not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please God, I think, let me win the Lottery and I promise to share nicely.

  And so, on the way down to my parents' house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.

  1 6 9 16 23 44

  No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? 1 never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.

  3 14 21 25 36 44

  That's a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.

  5 11 18 27 28 42

  I'm quite impressed by this one. It looks like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. 'One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of ten million pounds.'

  For a moment, I feel faint. What'll I do with ten million pounds? Where will I start?

  Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no-one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bubble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath? I make a mental note to check next time I'm in Boots.)

  Then I'll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at £250,000 each. That'll leave me . . . five million. Plus about fifty thousand pounds on the party. And then I'll take everyone on holiday, to Barbados or somewhere. That'll cost about . . . a hundred thousand pounds, if we all fly Club.

  So that's four million, eight hundred and fifty thousand. Oh! and I need six thousand to pay off all my credit cards and, overdraft. Plus three hundred for Suze. Call it seven thousand. So that leaves . . . four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand.

  Obviously, I'll do loads for charity. In fact, I'll probably set up a charitable foundation. I'll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I'll send a great big cheque to my old English teacher, Mrs James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they'll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.

  Oh, and three hundred for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they're all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—

  'Excuse me.' A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the biro.

  'Sorry,' I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it four million or five million?

  Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven't entered it? I'd hate myself, wouldn't I? All my life, I'd never forgive myself. I'd be like the guy who committed suicide because he forgot to post his pools coupon.

  I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper That's nine tickets in all. Nine quid – quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that's nine times as many chances of winning, isn't it?

  And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.

  Brompton's Store

  CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS

  1 Brompton Street

  London SW4 7TH

  Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd

  London SW6 8FD

  2 March 2000

  Dear Ms Bloomwood

  Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Brompton Gilt Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.

  Your outstanding bill is currently £235.76. The minimum payment is £43.00. You may pay by cash, cheque or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.

  Yours sincerely

  John Hunter

  Customer Accounts Manager

  Brompton's Store

  1 Brompton Street

&n
bsp; London SW4 7TH

  Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd

  London SW6 8FD

  2 March 2000

  Dear Ms Bloomwood

  There's never been a better time to spend!

  For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over £50 made with the Brompton Gilt Card* – so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders' Gifts.

  Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:

  An Italian leather bag 1,000 points

  A case of pink champagne 2,000 points

  Two flights to Paris* * 5,000 points

  (Your current level is: 35 points)

  And remember, during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every £5 spent. We look forward to welcoming you instore soon to take advantage of this unique offer.

  Yours sincerely

  Adrian Smith

  Customer Services Manager

  *excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand and hairdresser

  **certain restrictions apply – see enclosed leaflet

  Four

  When I arrive at my parents' house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.

  'All I'm saying is that they should set a good example!' Mum is saying.

  'And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it? You think that would solve the problem.'

  'Danger!' says Mum derisively. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?'

  'Hi, Mum,' I say. 'Hi Dad.'

  'Becky agrees with me. Don't you, darling?' says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times. 'Lovely cardigan,' she adds sotto voce. 'Look at that embroidery!'

  'Of course she doesn't agree with you!' retorts my dad. 'It's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard.'

  'No it's not!' says Mum indignantly. 'Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the Royal Family to travel by public transport, don't you, darling?'

  'Well . . .' I say cautiously. 'I hadn't really . . .'

  'You think the Queen should travel to official engagements on the 93 bus?' scoffs Dad.

  'And why not? Maybe then the 93 bus would become more efficient!'

  'So,' I say, sitting down next to Mum. 'How are things?'

  'You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?' says Mum, as if she hasn't heard me. 'If more people don't start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.'

  My dad shakes his head.

  'And you think the Queen travelling on the 93 bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she'd be able to do far fewer engagements . . .'

  'I didn't mean the Queen, necessarily,' retorts Mum, and pauses for a second. 'But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube every so often, couldn't she? These people need to learn about real life.'

  The last time my mum travelled on the tube was about 1983.

  'Shall I make some coffee?' I say brightly.

  'If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,' says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. 'It's all propaganda.'

  'Propaganda?' exclaims my mum in outrage.

  'Right,' I say hurriedly. 'Well, I'll go and put the kettle on.'

  I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I've already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They'll just go round and round in circles and agree it's all the fault of Tony Blair. Anyway, I've got more important things to think about. I'm trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the Lottery. I can't leave him out, of course – but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside. (Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing).

  Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I'm going to win the Lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can't wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I'll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!

  The newspaper's open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven-bedroomed detached house with staff annexe and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock. Six point five million pounds. That's how much they're asking. Six and a half million.

  I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven't got anything like six point five million pounds. I've only got about . . . four million left. Or was it five? Whatever it is, it's not enough. I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want – but already I'm feeling poor and inadequate.

  Crossly, I shove the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at £100 each. That's more like it. When I've won the Lottery I'll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I'll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown . . .

  'So, how's the world of finance?' Mum's voice interrupts me and I look up. She's bustling into the kitchen, still holding her Past Times catalogue. 'Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!'

  'I was going to,' I say, and make a half-move from my chair. But, as I predicted, Mum's there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I've never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafetière.

  Mum's terrible. She's always buying new stuff for the kitchen – and she just gives the old stuff to Oxfam. New kettles, new toasters . . . We've already had three new rubbish bins this year – dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what a waste of money.

  'That's a nice skirt!' she says, looking at me as though for the first time. 'Where's that from?'

  'DKNY,' I mumble back.

  'Very pretty,' she says. 'Was it expensive?'

  'Not really,' I say without pausing. 'About fifty quid.'

  This is not strictly true. It was nearer a hundred and fifty. But there's no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she'd have a coronary. Or, in fact, she'd tell my dad first – and then they'd both have coronaries, and I'd be an orphan.

  So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real Prices and Mum Prices. It's a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 per cent off, and you walk around mentally reducing everything, After a while, you get quite practised.

  The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 per cent (if it really cost £20, I say it cost £16) and rises up to . . . well, to 90 per cent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost £200, and I told Mum they were £20 in the sale. And she believed me.

  'So, are you looking for a flat?' she says, glancing over my shoulder at title property pages.

  'No,' I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat. Do they know how much flats cost? And I don't mean flats in Croydon.

  'Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,' she says, nodding towards our next-door neighbours. 'He commutes.' She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she's telling me he's won the Nobel Peace Prize.

  'Well, I can't afford a flat,' I say. 'Or a starter home.'

  Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o'clock tonight. Hee hee hee.

  'Money troubles?' says Dad, coming into the kitch
en. 'You know, there are two solutions to money troubles?'

  Oh God. Not this again. Dad's aphorisms.

  'C.B.,' says Dad, his eyes twinkling, 'or M.M.M.'

  He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can't hear him.

  'Cut Back,' says my dad, 'or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?'

  'Oh, both, I expect,' I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It'll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillionaire overnight.

  After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I'm really just going to keep Mum company, and I'm certainly not planning to buy anything – but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only £1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don't you? There's also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little elephants going round it – and I've been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren't they? You go along thinking they'll be complete rubbish – but you can always find something you want.

  Mum's really happy, too, as she's found a pair of candlesticks for her collection. She's got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers and thimbles. (Personally, I don't think the thimbles count as a proper collection, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an advert at the back of the Mail on Sunday magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn't have mentioned it.)

  So anyway, we're both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no-one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no-one's stopping. He's selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?

  'That's nice!' I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.