The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.

  As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. In spite of myself, I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing's laughable. That Tom Webster should think I'm in love with him. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents, and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I'll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own. That would shut them all up, wouldn't it? And anyway, who cares what they think?

  I know all this. I know I shouldn't care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so . . . I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven't I got a boyfriend? There isn't even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, and we split up three months ago. And I didn't even much like him. He used to call me 'Love' and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive me mad. Even remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.

  But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn't he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn't have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.

  I give a gusty sigh, stand up and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn't been a great day. I've lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven't got anything to do tonight. I thought I'd be too knackered after working all day, so I didn't bother to organize anything.

  Still, at least I've got twenty quid.

  Twenty quid. I'll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. And a couple of magazines.

  And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I really need some new boots – and I've seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I'll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube . . .

  By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already.

  PGNI First Bank Visa

  7 Camel Square

  Liverpool L1 5NP

  Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd

  London SW6 8FD

  15 March 2000

  Dear Ms Bloomwood

  PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586

  Thank you for your letter of 11 March.

  Your offer of a free subscription to Successful Saving magazine is most kind, as is your invitation to dinner at the Ivy. Unfortunately, employees of PGNI First Bank are prohibited from accepting such gifts.

  I look forward to receiving your outstanding payment of £105.40, as soon as possible.

  Yours sincerely

  Peter Johnson

  Customer Accounts Executive

  Ten

  On Monday morning I wake early, feeling rather hollow inside. My gaze flits to the pile of unopened carrier bags in the corner of my room and then quickly flits away again. I know I spent too much money on Saturday. I know I shouldn't have bought two pairs of boots. I know I shouldn't have bought that purple dress. In all, I spent . . . Actually, I don't want to think about how much I spent. Think about something else, quick, I instruct myself. Something else. Anything'll do.

  I'm well aware that at the back of my mind, thumping quietly like a drumbeat, are the twin horrors of Guilt and Panic.

  Guilt Guilt Guilt Guilt.

  Panic Panic Panic Panic.

  If I let them, they'd swoop into my mind and take over. I'd feel completely paralysed with misery and fear. So the trick I've learned is simply not to listen. I close off the back of my mind – and then nothing worries me. It's simple self-defence. My mind is very well trained like that.

  My other trick is to distract myself with different thoughts and activities. So I get up, switch the radio on, take a shower and get dressed. The thumping's still there at the back of my head, but gradually, gradually, it's fading away. As I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, I can barely hear it any more. A cautious relief floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I'm going to be all right.

  On the way out I pause in the hall to check my appearance in the mirror (Top: River Island, Skirt: French Connection, Tights: Pretty Polly Velvets, Shoes: Ravel) and reach for my coat (Coat: House of Fraser sale). Just then the post plops through the door, and I go to pick it up. There's a handwritten letter for Suze, and a postcard from the Maldives. And for me, there are two ominous-looking window envelopes. One from VISA, one from Endwich Bank.

  For a moment, my heart stands still. Why another letter from the bank? And VISA. What do they want? Can't they just leave me alone?

  Carefully I place Suze's post on the ledge in the hall and shove my own two letters in my pocket, telling myself I'll read them on the way to work. Once I get on the tube, I'll open them both and I'll read them, however unpleasant they are.

  That really is my intention. Honestly. As I'm walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.

  But then I turn into the next street – and there's a skip outside someone's house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.

  And a little thought creeps into my mind.

  My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I'm interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, heart thumping, until the builders have gone back into the house and no-one's looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over the side, into the skip.

  Gone.

  As I'm standing there a builder pushes past me with two sacks of broken plaster, and heaves them into the skip. And now they really are gone. Buried beneath a layer of plaster, unread. No-one will ever find them.

  Gone for good.

  Quickly I turn away from the skip and begin to walk on again. Already my step's lighter and I'm feeling buoyant.

  Before long, I'm feeling completely innocent; purged of guilt. I mean, it's not my fault if I never read the letters, is it? It's not my fault if I never got them, is it? As I bound along towards the tube station I honestly feel as though neither of those letters ever existed.

  When I arrive at work, I switch on my computer, click efficiently to a new document and start typing my piece on pensions. Perhaps if I work really hard, it's occurred to me, Philip will give me a rise. I'll stay late every night and impress him with my dedication to the job, and he'll realize that I'm considerably undervalued. Perhaps he'll even make me associate editor, or something.

  'These days,' I type briskly, 'none of us can rely on the government to take care of us in our old age. Therefore pension planning should be done as early as possible, ideally as soon as you are earning an income.'

  'Morning, Clare,' says Philip, coming into the office in his overcoat. 'Morning Rebecca.'

  Hah! Now is the time to impress him.

  'Morning Philip,' I say, in a friendly-yet-professional manner. Then, instead of leaning back in my chair and asking him how his weekend was, I turn back to my computer and start typing again. In fact, I'm typing so fast that the screen is filled with lots of splodgy typos. It has to be said, I'm not the best typist in the world. But who cares? I look very businesslike, that's the point.

  'The bwst ootion is oftwn yoor compaamy occu-patinoa Ischeme, bt if tehis is not posibsle, a wide vareiety of peronanlas penion lans is on ther markte, ranign from . . .' I break off, reach for a pension brochure and flip quickly through it, as though scanning for some crucial piece of information.

  'Good weekend, Rebecca?' says Philip.

  'Fine, thanks,' I say, glancing up from the brochure as
though surprised to be interrupted while I'm at work.

  'I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,' he says. 'The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.'

  'Right,' I say absently.

  'It's the place to be, these days, isn't it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.'

  'I suppose so,' I say vaguely.

  'That's what we'll have to call you,' he says, and gives a little guffaw. 'The office It-girl.'

  It-girl? What on earth is he talking about?

  'Right,' I say, and smile at him. After all, he's the boss. He can call me whatever he—

  Oh God, hang on a minute. Hang-on-a-minute. Philip hasn't got the idea that I'm rich, has he? He doesn't think I've got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?

  'Rebecca,' says Clare, looking up from her telephone. 'I've got a call for you. Someone called Tarquin.'

  Philip gives a little grin, as though to say, What else? and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration. This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I've got some kind of private income, he'll never give me a rise.

  But what on earth could have given him that idea?

  'Becky,' says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.

  'Oh,' I say. 'Yes, OK.' I pick up the receiver, and say, 'Hi. Rebecca Bloom wood here.'

  'Becky,' comes Tarquin's unmistakable, reedy voice. He sounds rather nervous, as if he's been gearing up to this phone call for ages. Perhaps he has. 'It's so nice to hear your voice. You know, I've been thinking about you a lot.'

  'Really?' I say, as unhelpfully as possible. I mean, I know he's Suze's cousin and everything, but honestly—

  'I'd . . . I'd very much like to spend some more time in your company,' he says. 'May I take you out to dinner?'

  Oh God. What am I supposed to say to that? It's such an innocuous request. I mean, it's not as if he's said, Can I sleep with you? or even Can I kiss you? If I say 'No' to dinner it's like saying, You're so unbearable, I can't even stand sharing a table with you for two hours.

  Which is pretty near the truth – but I can't say that, can I? And Suze has been so sweet to me recently, and if I turn her darling Tarkie down flat, she'll be really upset.

  'I suppose so,' I say, aware that I don't sound too thrilled – and also aware that maybe I should just come clean and say I Don't Fancy You. But somehow I can't face it. To be honest, it would be a lot easier just to go out to dinner with him. I mean, how bad can it be?

  And anyway, I don't have to actually go. I'll call at the last moment and cancel. Easy.

  'I'm in London until Sunday,' says Tarquin.

  'Let's make it Saturday night, then!' I say brightly. 'Just before you leave.'

  'Seven o'clock?'

  'How about eight?' I suggest.

  'OK,' he says. 'Eight o'clock.' And he rings off, without mentioning a venue. But since I'm not actually going to meet him, this doesn't really matter. I put the phone down, give an impatient sigh, and start typing again.

  'The best option for many is to consult an independent financial adviser, who will be able to advise you on your own particular pension needs and recommend suitable products. New on the market this year is the . . .' I break off and reach for a brochure. Any old brochure. 'Sun Assurance "Later Years" Retirement Plan, which . . .'

  'So, was that guy asking you out?' says Clare Edwards.

  'Yes, he was, actually,' I say, looking up carelessly. In spite of myself, I feel a little flip of pleasure. Because Clare doesn't know what Tarquin's like, does she? For all she knows, he's incredibly good-looking and witty. 'We're going out on Saturday night.' I give her a nonchalant smile and start typing again.

  'Oh, right,' she says, and snaps an elastic band round a pile of letters. 'You know, Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend the other day.'

  For an instant I can't move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I've got a boyfriend?

  'Really?' I say, trying to sound normal. 'When . . . when was this?'

  'Oh, just the other day,' she says. 'I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.'

  'And what did you say?'

  'I said no,' said Clare, and gives me a little grin. 'You don't fancy him, do you?'

  'Of course not,' I say, and roll my eyes.

  But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything – but still. Luke Brandon. 'This flexible plan,' I type, 'offers full death benefits and a lump sum on retirement. For example, a typical man in his thirties who invested £100 a month . . .'

  You know what? I suddenly think, stopping mid-sentence. This is boring. I'm better than this.

  I'm better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.

  I stop typing and rest my chin on my hands. It's time for a new start. Why don't I do what Elly's doing? I'm not afraid of a bit of hard work, am I? Why don't I get my life in order, go to a City head-hunter and land myself a job which everyone will envy? I'll have a huge income and a company car and wear Karen Millen suits every day. And I'll never have to worry about money again.

  I feel exhilarated. This is it! This is the answer to everything. I'll be a . . .

  'Clare?' I say casually. 'Who earns the most in the City?'

  'I don't know,' says Clare, frowning thoughtfully. 'Maybe futures brokers?'

  That's it, then. I'll be a futures broker. Easy.

  And it is easy. So easy, that ten o'clock the next morning sees me walking nervously up to the front doors of Willam Green, top City head-hunters. As I push the door open I glimpse my own reflection and feel a little thrill go through my stomach. Am I really doing this?

  You bet I am. I'm wearing my smartest black suit, and tights and high heels, with an FT under my arm, obviously. And I'm carrying the briefcase with the combination lock which my mum gave me one Christmas and which I've never used. This is partly because it's really heavy and bumpy – and partly because I've forgotten the combination, so I can't actually open it. But it looks the part. And that's what counts.

  Jill Foxton, the woman I'm meeting, was really nice on the phone when I told her about wanting to change careers, and sounded pretty impressed by all my experience. I quickly typed up a CV and e-mailed it through to her – and, OK, I embroidered it a bit, but that's what they expect, isn't it? It's all about selling yourself. And it worked, because she phoned back only about ten minutes after receiving it, and asked if I'd come in and see her, as she thought she had some interesting opportunities for me.

  Interesting opportunities for me! I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight in to Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo – and he didn't suspect a thing. He's going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I've turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.

  'Hi,' I say confidently to the woman at reception. 'I'm here to see Jill Foxton. It's Rebecca Bloomwood.'

  'Of. . .'

  Oh God. I can't say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I've been looking for a new job.

  'Of . . . just of nowhere, really,' I say and give a relaxed little laugh. 'Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o'clock appointment.'

  'Fine,' she says, and smiles. 'Take a seat.'

  I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black squashy chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there's nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There's a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve, and what seems like several miles away I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two, but about ten. Blimey. This place must be
huge.

  'Rebecca?' A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.

  'Hi!' I say. 'Jill!'

  'No, I'm Amy,' she smiles. 'Jill's assistant.'

  Wow. That's pretty cool. Sending your assistant to pick up your visitors, as if you're too grand and busy to do it yourself. Maybe that's what I'll get my assistant to do when I'm an important futures broker and Elly comes over for lunch. Or maybe I'll have a male assistant – and we'll fall in love! God, it would be just like a movie. The high-flying woman and the cute but sensitive . . .

  'Rebecca?' I come to and see Amy staring at me curiously. 'Are you ready?'

  'Of course!' I say gaily, and pick up my briefcase. As we stride off over the glossy floor, I surreptitiously run my gaze over Amy's trouser suit again – and find my eye landing on a discreet Emporio Armani label. I can't quite believe it. Emporio Armani! The assistants wear Emporio Armani! So what's Jill herself going to be in? Couture Dior? God, I love this place already.

  We go up to the sixth floor and begin to walk along endless carpeted corridors.

  'So you want to be a futures broker,' says Amy after a while.

  'Yes,' I say. 'That's the idea.'

  'And you already know a bit about it.'

  'Well, you know,' I give a modest smile. 'I've written extensively on most areas of finance, so I do feel quite well equipped.'

  'That's good,' says Amy, and gives me a smile. 'Some people turn up with no idea. Then Jill asks them a few standard questions, and . . .' She makes a gesture with her hand. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't look good.

  'Right!' I say, forcing myself to speak in an easy tone. 'So – what sort of questions?'

  'Oh, nothing to worry about!' says Amy. 'She'll probably ask you . . . oh, I don't know. Something like, "How do you trade a butterfly?" or "What's the difference between open outlay and OR?" Or "How would you calculate the expiry date of a futures instrument?" Really basic stuff.'