The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  Yours sincerely

  Derek Smeath

  Manager

  ENDWICH – BECAUSE WE CARE

  Six

  OK, I think firmly the next day. The thing is not to get freaked out by how much I happened to spend yesterday. It's water under the bridge. The point is, today is the beginning of my new frugal life. From now on, I'm just going to spend absolutely nothing. David E. Barton says you should aim to cut your expenditure by half in the first week but I reckon I can do much better than that. I mean, not wanting to be rude, but these self-help books are always for people with absolutely zero self-control, aren't they? And I gave up smoking easily enough. (Except socially, but that doesn't count.)

  I feel quite exhilarated as I make myself a cheese sandwich and wrap it up in tinfoil. I've already saved a couple of quid, just by doing that! I haven't got a flask (must buy one at the weekend), so I can't take in coffee, but there's a bottle of Ame in the fridge so I decide I'll take that instead. It'll be healthier, too.

  In fact, it makes you wonder why people buy shop-made sandwiches at all. Look how cheap and easy it is to make your own. And it's the same with curries. David E. Barton says instead of forking out for expensive takeaway meals you should learn how to make your own curries and stir-fries, for a fraction of the cost. So that's what I'm going to do this weekend, after I've been to a museum or maybe just walked along the river, enjoying the scenery.

  As I walk along to the tube I feel pure and refreshed. Stern, almost. Look at all these people on the street, scurrying around, thinking about nothing but money. Money, money, money. It's an obsession. But once you relinquish money altogether, it ceases to have any relevance. Already, I feel I'm in a completely different mindset. Less materialistic, more philosophical. More spiritual. As David E. Barton says, we all fail to appreciate each day just how much we already possess. Light, air, freedom, the companionship of friends . . . I mean, these are the things that matter, aren't they? Not clothes and shoes and fripperies.

  It's almost frightening, the transformation that's already occurred within me. For example, I walk past the magazine kiosk at the tube station and idly glance over – but I don't feel the slightest desire to buy any of the magazines on offer. Magazines are irrelevant in my new life. (Plus I've already read most of them.)

  So I get on the tube feeling serene and impervious, like a Buddhist monk. When I get off the tube at the other end, I walk straight past the discount shoe shop without even looking, and straight past Lucio's, too. No cappuccino today. No muffin. No spending at all – just straight to the office.

  It's quite an easy time of the month for Successful Saving. We've only just put the latest issue of the magazine to bed, which basically means we can laze around for a few days doing nothing, before getting our act together for the next issue. Of course, we're meant to be starting on research for next month's article. In fact, I'm supposed to be making lots of phone calls to stockbrokers today, asking for their investment tips for the next six months.

  But somehow the whole morning goes by and I haven't done anything, just changed the screensaver on my computer to three yellow fish and an octopus, and written out an expense claim form. To be honest, I can't really concentrate on proper work. I suppose I'm too exhilarated by my new pure self. I keep trying to work out how much I'll have saved by the end of the month and what I'll be able to afford in Jigsaw.

  At lunchtime I take out my sandwich wrapped in foil – and for the first time that day, I feel a bit depressed. The bread's gone all soggy, and some pickle's leaked out onto the foil, and it really doesn't look very appetizing at all. What I crave at that moment is Pret à Manger walnut bread and a chocolate brownie.

  Don't think about it, I instruct myself firmly. Think how much money you're saving. So somehow I force myself to eat my soggy effort, and swig down some Ame. When I've finished, I throw away my foil, screw the top back on the Ame bottle and put it in our tiny office fridge. And that's about . . . five minutes of my lunch break gone.

  So what am I supposed to do next? Where am I supposed to go?

  I slump miserably at my desk. God, this frugality is hard going. I leaf dispiritedly through a few folders . . . then raise my head and stare out of the window, at all the busy Oxford Street shoppers clutching carrier bags. I want to get out there so desperately, I'm actually leaning forward in my chair, like a plant towards the light. I'm craving the bright lights and warm air; the racks of merchandise, even the bleep of the cash registers. But I can't go. This morning I told myself that I wouldn't go near the shops all day. I promised myself – and I can't break my own promise. Or at least, not so soon . . .

  Then a brilliant thought occurs to me. I need to get a curry recipe for my home-made takeaway, don't I? David E. Barton says recipe books are a waste of money. He says you should use the recipes printed on the sides of food packets, or take books out of the library. But I've got an even better idea. I'll go into Smith's and copy out a curry recipe to make on Saturday night. That way, I can go into a shop – but I don't need to spend any money. Already I'm scrambling to my feet, reaching for my coat. Shops, here I come!

  As I walk into Smith's I feel my whole body expand in relief. There's a thrill about walking into a shop – any shop – which you can't beat. It's partly the anticipation, partly the buzzy, welcoming atmosphere; partly just the lovely newness of everything. Shiny new magazines, shiny new pencils, shiny new protractors. Not that I've needed a protractor since I was eleven – but don't they look nice, all clean and unscratched in their packets? There's a new range of leopard-print stationery which I haven't seen before, and for a moment I'm almost tempted to linger. But instead I force myself to stride on past, down to the back of the shop where the books are stacked.

  There's a whole array of Indian recipe books, and I pick up one at random, flicking over the pages and wondering what sort of recipe I should go for. I hadn't realized quite how complicated this Indian cookery is. Perhaps I should write down a couple, to be on the safe side.

  I look around cautiously and take out my notebook and pen. I'm a bit wary, because I know Smith's don't like you copying down stuff out of their books. The reason I know this is because Suze once got asked to leave the Smith's in Victoria. She was copying out a page of the A-Z, because she'd forgotten hers – and they told her she had to either buy it or leave. (Which doesn't make any sense, because they let you read the magazines for free, don't they?)

  So anyway, when I'm sure no-one's looking, I start copying out the recipe for 'Tiger prawn biriani'. I'm halfway through the list of spices when a girl in WH Smith uniform comes round the corner – so I quickly close the book and walk off a little, pretending I'm browsing. When I think I'm safe, I open it again – but before I can write anything down, an old woman in a blue coat says loudly,

  'Is that any good, dear?'

  'What?' I say.

  'The book!' She gestures to the recipe book with her umbrella. 'I need a present for my daughter-in-law, and she comes from India. So I thought I'd get a nice Indian recipe book. Is that a good one, would you say?'

  'I really don't know,' I say. 'I haven't read it yet.'

  'Oh,' she says, and starts to wander off. I ought to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business – but I just can't resist it, I have to clear my throat and say, 'Doesn't she have lots of Indian recipes already?'

  'Who, dear?' says the woman, turning round.

  'Your daughter-in-law!' Already, I'm regretting this. 'If she's Indian, doesn't she already know how to cook Indian food?'

  'Oh,' says the old woman. She seems completely flummoxed. 'Well, what should I get, then?'

  Oh God.

  'I don't know,' I say. 'Maybe a book on . . . on something else?'

  'That's a good idea!' she says brightly, and comes towards me. 'You show me, dear.'

  Why me?

  'Sorry,' I say. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry today.'

  Quickly I stride off, feeling a bit bad. I reach the CD and video section, which
is always quite empty, and hide behind a rack of Teletubbies videos. I glance around and check no-one's about, then open the book again. OK, turn to page 214, Tiger prawn biriani . . . I start copying again, and I've just got to the end of the list of spices, when a stern voice says in my ear,

  'Excuse me?'

  I'm so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to my horror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round innocently. A man in a white shirt and a name badge is looking at me disapprovingly.

  'This isn't a public library, you know,' he says. 'You think we run a free information service?'

  'I'm just browsing,' I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man's finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut. Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue biro line.

  'Browsing is one thing,' says the man sternly. 'Defacing shop stock is another.'

  'It was an accident!' I say. 'You startled me!'

  'Hmm,' says the man, and gives me a hard stare. 'Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?'

  There's a pause – then, rather shamefacedly, I say,

  'No.'

  'I see,' says the man, tightening his lips. 'Well, I'm afraid this matter will have to go to the manageress. Obviously, we can't sell this book now, so it's our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred

  Is he serious? Isn't he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn't matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can't buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don't want to go and see the manageress, either.

  'Lynn?' the man's calling to an assistant at the pen counter. 'Could you page Glenys for me, please?'

  He really is serious. He's looking all pleased with himself, as though he's caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. Oh God. I'll have a criminal record. I won't ever be able to go to America.

  'Look, I'll buy it, OK?' I say breathlessly. 'I'll buy the bloody book.' I wrench it from the man's grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else, my heart still thumping hard.

  Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and I try to avoid her eye. But she spots me, and calls triumphantly,

  'I took your advice! I've got something I think she'll really like!'

  'Oh good,' I reply, handing my recipe book over to be scanned.

  'It's called The Rough Guide to India,' says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback. 'Have you heard of it?'

  'Oh,' I say. 'Well, yes, but—'

  'That's £24.99, please,' says the girl at my till.

  What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn't I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn. Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over. Shopping is one thing – being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty-five quid.

  On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that's quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to . . . 50p! And now I'll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I've got to think of this book as an investment.

  I don't want to boast – but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office (and some coffee beans and an electric grinder – because there's no point taking in crappy instant coffee, is there?). And some flowers and champagne for Suze's birthday.

  But I'm allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. 'Do not stop giving your friends gifts,' he says. 'They need not be extravagant – use your creativity and try making them yourself.'

  So what I've done is to buy Suze a half-bottle of champagne instead of a whole one – and instead of buying expensive croissants from the patisserie, I'm going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.

  In the evening we're going out to Terrazza for supper with Suze's cousins Fenella and Tarquin – and, to be honest, it might be quite an expensive evening. But that's OK, because it counts as breaking bread with friends. (Except the bread at Terrazza is sun-dried tomato focaccia and costs £4.50 a basket.)

  Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o'clock on Suze's birthday, and as soon as she sees them, she starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I'm not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, I think they're a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They're both very skinny – but in a pale, bony way – and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn't look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this stupid family language which no-one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches 'witchies'. And a drink is a 'titchy' (except if it's water, which is 'Ho'). Take it from me, it gets really irritating after a while.

  But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can't see that they're a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she's with them. It drives me mad.

  Still, there's nothing I can do about it – they're here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I'm pretty pleased with what I see. I'm wearing a really simple black top and black trousers – and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.

  I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.

  'Hi, Bex!' says Suze, looking up with bright eyes. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They're not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella's wearing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin's double-breasted suit looks as if it was tailored during the First World War.

  'Hi!' I say, and kiss each of them politely.

  'Oh, wow!' cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. 'I don't believe it! I don't believe it!' She's looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can't say I'm impressed. For a start it's really dingy – all sludgy greens and browns – and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn't it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden by a girl in one of those lovely Pride and Prejudice dresses.

  'Happy Bad Day!' Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That's another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since . . . Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)

  'It's absolutely gorgeous!' I say enthusiastically. 'Absolutely beautiful!'

  'It is, isn't it?' says Tarquin earnestly. 'Just look at those colours.'

  'Mmm, lovely,' I say, nodding.

  'And the brushwork. It's exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.'

  'It's a really wonderful picture,' I say. 'Makes you want to just . . . gallop off over the downs!'

  What is this drivel I'm coming out with? Why can't I just be honest and say I don't like it?

  'Do you ride?' says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.

  I've ridden once. On my cousin's horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I'm not going to admit that to Mr Horse of the Year.


  'I used to,' I say, and give a modest little smile. 'Not very well.'

  'I'm sure you'd get back into it,' says Tarquin, gazing at me. 'Have you ever hunted?'

  Oh for God's sake. Do I look like Ms Country Life?

  'Hey,' says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. 'Shall we have a titchy before we go?'

  'Absolutely!' I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. 'Good idea.'

  'Oooh yes,' says Fenella. 'Have you got any champagne?'

  'Should have,' says Suze, and goes into the kitchen. At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.

  'Hello?'

  'Hello, may I speak to Rebecca Bloomwood?' says a strange woman's voice.

  'Yes,' I say idly. I'm listening to Suze opening and shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen and wondering if we have actually got any champagne, apart from the dregs of the half-bottle we drank for breakfast . . . 'Speaking.'

  'Ms Bloomwood, this is Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank,' says the voice, and I freeze.

  Shit. It's the bank. Oh God, they sent me that letter, didn't they, and I never did anything about it.

  What am I going to say? Quick, what am I going to say?

  'Ms Bloomwood?' says Erica Parnell.

  OK – what I'll say is, I'm fully aware that my overdraft is slightly larger than it should be, and I'm planning to take remedial action within the next few days. Yes, that sounds good. 'Remedial action' sounds very good. OK – go.

  Firmly I tell myself not to panic – these people are human – and take a big breath. And then, in one seamless, unplanned movement, my hand puts down the receiver.

  I stare at the silent phone for a few seconds, not quite able to believe what I've just done. What did I do that for? Erica Parnell knew it was me, didn't she? Any minute, she'll ring back. She's probably pressing redial now, and she'll be really angry . . .

  Quickly I take the phone off the hook and hide it under a cushion. Now she can't get me. I'm safe.