The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  'Who was that?' says Suze, coming into the room.

  'No-one,' I say, feeling slightly shaky. 'Just a wrong . . . Listen, let's not have drinks here. Let's go out!'

  'Oh,' says Suze. 'OK!'

  'Much more fun,' I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. 'We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.'

  What I'll do in future, I'm thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.

  'What's going on?' says Fenella, appearing at the door.

  'Nothing!' I hear myself say. 'We're going out for a titchy and then on to sups.'

  Oh, I don't believe it. I'm turning into one of them.

  As we arrive at Terrazza, I'm feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She'll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we're two civilized adults, aren't we? Adults just don't do things like that.

  And if I ever meet her – which I hope to God I never do – I'll just keep very cool and say, 'It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn't it?' Or even better, I'll accuse her of putting the phone down on me (in a joky way, of course).

  Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn't been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I've managed it. And I'm keeping to it so well! On Saturday I'm going to monitor my spending pattern again – and I'm sure it'll have gone down by at least 70 per cent.

  'What shall we have to drink?' says Suze. 'Tarquin, you choose.'

  'Oh look!' shrieks Fenella. 'There's Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.' She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I've no idea.

  'Suze!' cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading towards our table, arms stretched out for a hug. 'And Tarkie!'

  'Hello, Tory,' says Tarquin, getting to his feet. 'How's Mungo?'

  'He's over there!' says Tory. 'You must come and say hello!'

  How is it that Fenella and Tarquin spend most of their time in the middle of Perthshire – but the minute they set foot in London, they're besieged by long-lost friends?

  'Eddie says hi,' announces Fenella, returning to the table. 'Tory! How are you? How's Mungo?'

  'Oh, he's fine,' says Tory. 'But listen, have you heard? Caspar's back in town!'

  'No!' everyone exclaims, and I'm almost tempted to join in. No-one has bothered to introduce me to Tory – but that's the way it goes with these people. You join the gang by osmosis. One minute you're a complete stranger, the next you're shrieking away with the rest of them, going, 'Did you hear about Venetia and Sebastian?'

  'Look, we must order,' says Suze. 'We'll come and say hello in a minute, Tory.'

  'OK, ciao,' says Tory, and she sashays off.

  'Suze!' cries another voice, and a girl in a little black dress comes rushing up. 'And Fenny!'

  'Milla!' they both cry. 'How are you? How's Benjy?'

  Oh, God, it just doesn't stop. Here I am, staring at the menu – pretending to be really interested in the starters but really feeling like some utter loser that no-one wants to talk to – while bloody Fenella and Tarquin are Socialites of the Year. It's not fair. I want to table-hop, too. I want to bump into old friends I've known since babyhood. (Although to be honest, the only person I've known that long is Tom from next door. and he'll be in his limed oak kitchen in Reigate.)

  But just in case, I lower my menu and gaze hopefully around the restaurant. Please, God, just once, let there be someone I recognize. It doesn't have to be anyone I like, or even know that well – just someone I can rush up to and go mwah mwah and shriek 'We must do lunch!' Anyone'll do. Anyone at all . . .

  And then, with a disbelieving thrill, I spot a familiar face, a few tables away! It's Luke Brandon, sitting at a table with a smartly dressed older man and woman.

  Well, he's not exactly an old friend – but I know him, don't I? And it's not as if I've got much choice. And I so want to table-hop like the others.

  'Oh look, there's Luke!' I shriek (quietly, so he doesn't hear). 'I simply must go and say hello!'

  As the others look at me in surprise, I toss my hair back, leap to my feet and hurry off, full of a sudden exhilaration. I can do it, too! I'm table-hopping at Terrazza. I'm an It-girl!

  It's only when I get within a few feet of his table that I slow down and wonder what I'm actually going to say to him.

  Well . . . I'll just be polite. Say hello and – ah, genius! I can thank him again for his kind loan of twenty quid.

  Shit, I did pay him back, didn't I?

  Yes. Yes, I sent him that nice recycled card with poppies on it and a cheque. That's right. Now don't panic, just be cool and It.

  'Hi!' I say as soon as I get within earshot of his table, but the hubbub around us is so loud, he doesn't hear me. No wonder all Fenella's friends have got such screechy voices. You need about sixty-five decibels, just to be heard. 'Hi!' I try again, louder, but still no response. Luke is talking earnestly to the older man, and the woman's listening intently. None of them even glances up.

  This is getting a bit embarrassing. I'm standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn't he leaping up, shrieking, 'Have you heard about Foreland Investments?' It's not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pretend I was heading towards the Ladies?

  A waiter barges past me with a tray, and I'm pushed helplessly forward, towards Luke's table – and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn't even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I've got to go through with it now.

  'Hi, Luke!' I say brightly. 'I just thought I'd say . . . hello!'

  'Well, hello,' he says after a pause. 'Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca – my parents.'

  Oh God. What have I done? I've table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.

  'Hello,' I say, and give a feeble smile. 'Well, I won't keep you from—'

  'So how do you know Luke?' enquires Mrs Brandon.

  'Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,' says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Cor, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)

  I grin confidently at Mr Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I'm a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?

  'Financial journalist, eh?' grunts Mr Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. 'So what do you think of the Chancellor's announcement?'

  I'm never going to table-hop again. Never.

  'Well,' I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.

  'Dad, I'm sure Rebecca doesn't want to talk shop,' says Luke, frowning slightly.

  'Quite right!' says Mrs Brandon, and smiles at me. 'That's a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?'

  'Yes, it is!' I say brightly, full of relief at escaping the Chancellor's announcement. (What announcement?) 'I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!'

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking so—

  Oh fuck. How can I be so stupid?

  'In the sale . . . for my aunt,' I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. 'I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she . . . died.'

  There's a shocked silence and I look down. I can't quite believe what I've just said.

  'Oh dear,' says Mr Brandon gruffly.

  'Aunt Ermintrude died?' says Luke in a
strange voice.

  'Yes,' I reply, forcing myself to look up. 'It was terribly sad.'

  'How awful!' says Mrs Brandon sympathetically.

  'She was in hospital, wasn't she?' says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. 'What was wrong with her?'

  For an instant I'm silenced.

  'It was . . . her leg,' I hear myself say.

  'Her leg?' Mrs Brandon's staring at me anxiously. 'What was wrong with her leg?'

  'It . . . swelled up and got septic,' I say after a pause. 'And they had to amputate it and then she died.'

  'Christ,' says Mr Brandon, shaking his head. 'Bloody doctors.' He gives me a suddenly fierce look. 'Did she go private?'

  'Ummm . . . I'm not sure,' I say, starting to back away. I can't take any more of this. Why didn't I just say she gave me the bloody scarf? 'Anyway, lovely to see you, Luke. Must dash, my friends will be missing me!'

  I give a nonchalant kind of wave without quite looking Luke in the eye and then quickly turn round and walk back to Suze, my heart beating fast and my face flaming red. God, what a fiasco.

  But I've managed to recompose myself by the time our food arrives. The food! I've ordered grilled scallops and as I take my first bite, I nearly swoon. After so many torturous days of cheap, functional food, this is like going to heaven. I feel almost tearful – like a prisoner returning to the real world, or children after the war, when rationing stopped. After my scallops I have steak béarnaise and chips – and when all the others say 'no thanks' to the pudding menu, I order chocolate mousse. Because who knows when I'm next going to be in a restaurant like this? There could be months ahead of cheese sandwiches and home-made coffee in a flask, with nothing to relieve the monotony.

  It's a hard road, the one I've chosen. But it'll be worth it in the end.

  While I'm waiting for my chocolate mousse, Suze and Fenella decide they simply must go and talk to Benjy, on the other side of the room. So they leap up, both lighting cigarettes as they do so, and Tarquin stays behind to keep me company. He doesn't seem quite as into table-hopping as the others. In fact, he's been pretty quiet all evening. I've also noticed that he's drunk more than any of us. Any moment I'm expecting his head to land on the table. Which would be fine by me.

  For a while there's silence between us. To be honest, Tarquin is so weird, I don't feel any duty to talk to him. Then, suddenly, he says,

  'Do you like Wagner?'

  'Oh yes,' I say at once. I'm not sure I've ever heard any Wagner, but I don't want to sound uncultured, even in front of Tarquin. And I have been to the opera before – though I think that was Mozart.

  'The Liebestod from Tristan,' he says, and shakes his head. 'The Liebestod.'

  'Mmm,' I say, and nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. I pour myself some wine, fill his glass up too, and look around to see where Suze has got to. Typical of her just to disappear off and leave me with her drunken cousin.

  'Dah-dah-dah-dah, daaaah dah dah . . .'

  Oh my God, he's singing. Not loudly, admittedly – but really intensely. And he's staring into my eyes as though he expects me to join in.

  'Dah-dah-dah-dah . . .'

  Now he's closed his eyes and is swaying. This is getting embarrassing.

  'Da diddle-idy da-a-da-a daaaah dah . . .'

  'Lovely,' I say brightly. 'You can't beat Wagner, can you?'

  'Tristan,' he says. 'Und Isolde.' He opens his eyes. 'You'd make a beautiful Isolde.'

  I'd make a what? While I'm still staring at him, he lifts my hand to his lips and starts kissing it. For a few seconds I'm too shocked to move.

  'Tarquin,' I say as firmly as I can, trying to pull my hand away. 'Tarquin, please . . .' I look up and desperately scan the room for Suze – and as I do so, meet the eye of Luke Brandon, making his way out of the restaurant. He frowns slightly, lifts his hand in farewell, then disappears out of the door.

  'Your skin smells like roses,' murmurs Tarquin against my skin.

  'Oh shut up!' I say crossly, and yank my hand out of his grasp so hard I get a row of teeth marks on my skin. 'Just leave me alone!'

  I would slap him, but he'd probably take it as a come-on.

  Just then, Suze and Fenella arrive back at the table, full of news about Binky and Minky – and Tarquin relapses into silence. For the rest of the evening, even when we say goodbye, he barely looks at me. Thank God. He must have got the message.

  Seven

  It doesn't seem he has, though, because on Saturday I receive a card of a Pre-Raphaelite girl looking coyly over her shoulder. Inside, Tarquin has written:

  Many apologies for my uncouth behaviour, I hope to make it up to you. Tickets to Bayreuth – or, failing that, dinner?

  Tarquin

  Dinner with Tarquin. Can you imagine? Sitting opposite that stoaty head all evening. And what's he going on about, anyway? I've never heard of Bayreuth. Is it a new show or something? Or does he mean Beirut? Why would we want to go to Beirut, for God's sake?

  Anyway, never mind, forget Tarquin. I've got more important things to think about today. This is my sixth day of Cutting Back – and, crucially, my first weekend. David E. Barton says this is often when one's frugal regime cracks, as the office routine is no longer there as a distraction and the day stretches empty, waiting to be filled with the familiar comfort of shopping.

  But I'm too strong-willed to crack. I've got my day completely sussed – and I'm not going near any shops. This morning I'm going to visit a museum and then tonight, instead of wasting lots of money on an expensive takeaway, I'm cooking a home-made curry for me and Suze. I'm actually quite excited about it.

  My entire budget for today is as follows:

  Travel to museum: free (I already have

  a travelcard)

  Museum: free

  Curry: £2.50. (David E.

  Barton says you can

  make a wonderful

  curry for four

  people for less than

  £5.00 – and there

  are only two of us).

  Total daily

  expenditure: £2.50

  That's more like it. Plus I get to experience Culture instead of mindless materialism. I have chosen the Victoria & Albert Museum because I have never been to it before. In fact, I'm not even sure what they have in it. Statues of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, or something?

  Anyway whatever they have, it will be very interesting and stimulating, I'm sure. And above all, free!

  As I come out of South Kensington tube, the sun's shining brightly and I stride along, feeling pleased with myself. Normally I waste my Saturday mornings watching Live and Kicking and getting ready to go to the shops. But look at this! I suddenly feel very grownup and metropolitan, like someone in a Woody Allen film. I just need a long woolly scarf and some sunglasses and I'll look like Diane Keaton. (A young Diane Keaton, obviously, but without the seventies clothes.)

  And on Monday, when people ask me how my weekend was, I'll be able to say, 'Actually, I went to the V&A.' No, what I'll say is, 'I caught an exhibition.' That sounds much cooler. (Why do people say they 'caught' an exhibition, by the way? It's not as though all the paintings were thundering past like bulls at Pamplona.) Then they'll say, 'Really? I didn't know you were into art, Rebecca.' And I'll say, smugly, 'Oh yes. I spend most of my free time at museums.' And they'll give me an impressed look and say . . .

  Come to think of it, I've walked straight past the entrance. Silly me. Too busy thinking about the conversation between me and . . . actually, the person I realize I've pictured in this little scene is Luke Brandon. How weird. Why should that be? Because I table-hopped with him, I suppose. Anyway. Concentrate. Museum.

  Quickly I retrace my steps and walk nonchalantly into the entrance hall, trying to look as though I come here all the time. Not like that bunch of Japanese tourists clustering round their guide. Ha! I think proudly, I'm no tourist. This is my heritage. My culture. I pick up a map carelessly as though I don't really need it, and look at a list
of talks on things like 'Ceramics of the Yuan and Early Ming Dynasties.' Then, casually, I begin to walk through to the first gallery.

  'Excuse me?' A woman at a desk is calling to me. 'Have you paid?'

  Have I what? You don't have to pay to get into museums! Oh of course – she's just joking with me. I give a friendly little laugh, and carry on.

  'Excuse me!' she says, in a sharper voice, and a bloke in security uniform appears out of nowhere. 'Have you paid for admission?'

  'It's free!' I say in surprise.

  'I'm afraid not,' she says, and points to a sign behind me. I turn to read it, and nearly keel over in astonishment.

  Admission £5.00.

  I feel quite faint with shock. What's happened to the world? They're charging for admission to a museum. This is outrageous. Everyone knows museums are supposed to be free. If you start charging for museums, no-one will ever go! Our cultural heritage will be lost to a whole generation, excluded by a punitive financial barrier. The nation will be dumbed down still further, and civilized society will face the very brink of collapse. Is that what you want, Tony Blair?

  Plus, I don't have £5. I deliberately came out with no cash except £2.50 for my curry ingredients. Oh God, this is annoying. I mean, here I am, all ready for some culture. I want to go in and look at . . . well, whatever's in there – and I can't!

  Now all the Japanese tourists are staring at me, as if I'm some sort of criminal. Go away! I think crossly. Go and look at some art.

  'We take credit cards,' says the woman. 'VISA, Switch, American Express.

  'Oh,' I say. 'Well . . .OK.'

  'The season ticket is £15,' she says, as I reach for my purse, 'but it gives you unlimited access for a year.'

  Unlimited access for a year! Now wait just a minute. David E. Barton says what you're supposed to do, when you make any purchase, is estimate the 'cost per use', which you get by dividing the price by the number of times you use it. Let's suppose that from now on I come to the V&A once a month. (I should think that's quite realistic.) If I buy a season ticket, that's only . . . £1.25 a visit.

  Well, that's a bargain, isn't it? It's actually a very good investment, when you come to think of it.