The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  My thoughts stop mid-stream, and a nasty chill feeling begins to creep over me. All those letters. Those letters I've been putting in my dressing-table drawer. Surely they can't have . . .

  No. Don't say they've cancelled my card. They can't have done.

  My heart starts to thump in panic. I know I haven't been that great at paying my bills – but I need my VISA card. I need it. They can't just cancel it, just like that. Suddenly I feel rather shaky.

  'There are other people waiting,' says the girl, gesturing to the queue. 'So if you aren't able to pay . . .'

  'Of course I'm able to pay,' I say stiffly, aware that my cheeks are now flaming red. With trembling hands I scrabble in my purse and eventually produce my silver Octagon charge card. It was buried under all the others, so I can't have used it for a while. 'Here,' I say. 'I'll put it all on this.'

  'Fine,' says the girl curtly, and swipes the card.

  It's only as we're waiting silently for the authorization that I begin to wonder whether I've actually paid off my Octagon account. They sent me a nasty letter a while ago, didn't they? Something about an outstanding balance. But I'm sure I paid it off, ages ago. Or at least, some of it. Didn't I? I'm sure I—

  'I'm just going to have to make a quick call,' says the assistant, staring at her machine. She reaches for the phone next to the till, and dials a number.

  'Hi,' she says. 'Yes, if I can give you an account number.'

  Behind me, somebody sighs loudly. I can feel my face growing hotter and hotter. I don't dare look round. I don't dare move.

  'I see,' says the assistant eventually, and puts down the phone. She looks up – and at the sight of her face, my stomach gives a lurch. Her expression isn't apologetic, or polite any more. It's plain unfriendly.

  'Our financial services department would like you to contact them urgently,' she says curtly. 'I'll give you the number.'

  'Right,' I say, trying to sound relaxed. As though this is a fairly normal request. 'OK. Well, I'll do that. Thanks.' I hold my hand out for my charge card. I'm not interested in my shopping any more. All I want to do is get out of here as quickly as possible.

  'I'm sorry, I'm afraid your account's been frozen,' says the assistant without lowering her voice. 'I'm going to have to retain your card.'

  I stare at her in disbelief, feeling my face prickling with shock. Behind me there's an interested rustle as everybody hears this and starts nudging each other.

  'So, unless you have another means of paying . . .' she adds, looking at my heap of stuff on the counter. My waffle robe. My new duvet set. My scented candle. A huge, conspicuous pile of stuff. Stuff I don't need. Stuff which I can't pay for. Suddenly the sight of it all makes me feel sick.

  Numbly I shake my head. I feel as if I've been caught stealing.

  'Elsa,' calls the assistant. 'Will you deal with this, please? The customer isn't going to make the purchase after all.' She gestures to the pile of stuff, and the other assistant moves it along the counter, out of the way, her face deliberately blank.

  'Next, please.'

  The woman behind me steps forward, avoiding my eye in embarrassment, and slowly I turn away. I have never felt so humiliated in all my life. The whole floor seems to be looking at me – all the customers, all the sales assistants, all whispering and nudging. Did you see? Did you see what happened?

  With wobbling legs I walk away, not looking right or left. This is a nightmare. I just have to get out, as quickly as possible. I have to get out of the shop and onto the street and go . . .

  Go where? Home, I suppose.

  But I can't go back and face Suze and hear her going on about how sweet Tarquin is. Or even worse, risk bumping into him. Oh God. The very thought makes me feel sick.

  What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?

  Shakily, I begin to walk along the pavement, looking away from the mocking window displays. What can I do? Where can I go? I feel empty; almost lightheaded with panic.

  I pause at a corner, waiting for a traffic light to change and look blankly at a display of cashmere jumpers to my left. And suddenly, at the sight of a scarlet Pringle golfing jumper, I feel tears of relief springing to my eyes. There's one place I can go. One place I can always go.

  Home to my mum and dad.

  Sixteen

  When I turn up at my parents' house that afternoon with no warning, saying I want to stay for a few days, I can't say they seem shocked, or even surprised.

  In fact, so unsurprised do they seem, that I begin to wonder if they've been expecting this eventuality all along, ever since I moved to London. Have they been waiting every week for me to arrive on the doorsteps with no luggage and red eyes? They're certainly behaving as calmly as a hospital casualty team operating an emergency procedure that was rehearsed only last week.

  Except that surely the casualty team wouldn't keep arguing about the best way to resuscitate the patient? After a few minutes, I feel like going outside, letting them decide on their plan of action, and ringing the bell again.

  'You go upstairs and have a nice hot bath,' says Mum, as soon as I've put down my handbag. 'I expect you're exhausted!'

  'She doesn't have to have a bath if she doesn't want to!' retorts Dad. 'She might want a drink! D'you want a drink, darling?'

  'Is that wise?' says Mum, shooting him a meaningful What If She's An Alkie? look, which presumably I'm not supposed to notice.

  'I don't want a drink, thanks,' I say. 'But I'd love a cup of tea.'

  'Of course you would!' says Mum. 'Graham, go and put the kettle on.' And she gives him another meaningful look. As soon as he's disappeared into the kitchen, she comes close to me and says, in a lowered voice,

  'Are you feeling all right, darling? Is anything . . . wrong?'

  Oh God, there's nothing like your mother's sympathetic voice when you're feeling down, to make you want to burst into tears.

  'Well,' I say, in a slightly wobbly voice. 'Things have been better. I'm just . . . in a bit of a difficult situation at the moment. But it'll be all right in the end.' I give a small shrug and look away.

  'Because . . .' She lowers her voice even more. 'Your father isn't as old-fashioned as he seems. And I know that if it were a case of us looking after a . . . a Little One, while you pursued your career . . .'

  What?

  'Mum, don't worry!' I exclaim sharply. 'I'm not pregnant!'

  'I never said you were,' she says and flushes a little. 'I just wanted to offer you our support.'

  Bloody hell, what are my parents like? They watch too many soap operas, that's their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

  And what's this 'offer you our support' business, anyway? My mum would never have said that before she started watching Ricki Lake every afternoon.

  'Well, come on,' she says. 'Let's sit you down with a nice cup of tea.'

  And so I follow her into the kitchen, and we all sit down with a nice cup of tea. And I have to say, it is very nice. Hot strong tea and a chocolate bourbon biscuit. Perfect. I close my eyes and take a few sips, and then open them again, to see both my parents gazing at me with naked curiosity all over their faces. Immediately my mother changes her expression to a smile, and my father gives a little cough – but I can tell, they are gagging to know what's wrong.

  'So,' I say cautiously, and both their heads jerk up. 'You're both well, are you?'

  'Oh yes,' says my mother. 'Yes, we're fine.'

  There's another silence.

  'Becky?' says my father gravely, and both Mum and I swivel to face him. 'Are you in some kind of trouble we should know about? Only tell us if you want to,' he adds hastily. 'And I want you to know – we're there for you.'

  That's another bloody Ricki Lake-ism, too. My parents should really get out more.

  'Are you all right, darling?' says Mum gently – and she sounds so kind and understanding that, in spite of myself, I find myself putting
down my cup with a shaky hand and saying, 'To tell you the truth, I am in a spot of bother. I didn't want to worry you, so I haven't said anything before now . . .' I can feel tears gathering in my eyes.

  'What is it?' says Mum in a panicky voice. 'Oh God, you're on drugs, aren't you?'

  'No, I'm not on drugs!' I exclaim. 'I'm just . . . It's just that I . . . I'm . . .' I take a deep gulp of tea. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Come on, Rebecca, just say it.

  I close my eyes and clench my hand tightly around my mug.

  'The truth is . . .' I say slowly.

  'Yes?' says Mum.

  'The truth is . . .' I open my eyes. 'I'm being stalked. By a man called . . . called Derek Smeath.'

  There's silence apart from a long hiss as my father sucks in breath.

  'I knew it!' says my mother in a sharp, brittle voice. 'I knew it! I knew there was something wrong!'

  'We all knew there was something wrong!' says my father, and rests his elbows heavily on the table. 'How long has this been going on, Becky?'

  'Oh, ahm . . . months now,' I say, staring into my tea. 'It's just . . . pestering, really. It's not serious or anything. But I just couldn't deal with it any more.'

  'And who is this Derek Smeath?' says Dad. 'Do we know him?'

  'I don't think so. I came across him . . . I came across him through work.'

  'Of course you did!' says Mum. 'A young, pretty girl like you, with a high-profile career . . . I knew this was going to happen!'

  'Is he another journalist?' says Dad and I shake my head.

  'He works for Endwich Bank. He does things like . . . like phone up and pretend he's in charge of my bank account. He's really convincing.'

  There's silence while my parents digest this and I eat another chocolate bourbon.

  'Well,' says Mum at last. 'I think we'll have to phone the police.'

  'No!' I exclaim, spluttering crumbs all over the table. 'I don't want the police! He's never threatened me or anything. In fact, he's not really a stalker at all. He's just a pain. I thought if I disappeared for a while

  'I see,' says Dad, and glances at Mum. 'Well, that makes sense.'

  'So what I suggest,' I say, meshing my hands tightly in my lap, 'is that if he rings, you say I've gone abroad and you don't have a number for me. And . . . if anyone else rings, say the same thing. Even Suze.'

  'Are you sure?' says Mum, wrinkling her brow. 'Wouldn't it be better to go to the police?'

  'No!' I say quickly. 'That would only make him feel important. I just want to vanish for a bit.'

  'Fine,' says Dad. 'As far as we're concerned, you're not here.'

  He reaches across the table and clasps my hand. And as I see the worry on his face, I hate myself for what I'm doing. I feel so guilty that, for a moment, I feel I might just burst into tears, and tell them everything, truthfully.

  But . . . I can't do it. I simply can't tell my kind, loving parents that their so-called successful daughter with her so-called top job is in fact a disorganized, deceitful mess, up to her eyeballs in debt.

  And so we have supper (Waitrose Cumberland Pie) and watch an Agatha Christie adaptation together, and then I go upstairs to my old bedroom, put on an old nightie and go to bed. And when I wake up the next morning I feel more happy and well rested than I have for weeks.

  Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No-one can get me here. No-one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. All responsibility has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)

  It's at least nine o'clock before I rouse myself and get out of bed, and as I do so, it occurs to me that miles away in London, Derek Smeath is expecting me to arrive for a meeting in half an hour. A slight twinge passes through my stomach and for a moment I consider phoning up the bank and giving some excuse. But even as I'm considering it, I know I'm not going to do it. I don't even want to acknowledge the bank's existence. I want to forget all about it.

  None of it exists any more. Not the bank, not VISA, not Octagon. All eliminated from my life, just like that.

  The only call I make is to the office, because I don't want them sacking me in my absence. I phone at 9.20 – before Philip gets in – and get Mavis on reception.

  'Hello, Mavis?' I croak. 'It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Can you tell Philip I'm ill?'

  'You poor thing!' says Mavis. 'Is it bronchitis?'

  'I'm not sure,' I croak. 'I've got a doctor's appointment later. I must go. Bye.'

  And that's it. One phone call, and I'm free. No-one suspects anything – why should they? I feel light with relief. It's so easy to escape. So simple. I should have done this long ago.

  At the back of my mind, like a nasty little gremlin, is the knowledge that I won't be able to stay here for ever. That sooner or later things will start to catch up with me.

  But the point is – not yet. Not for a long time. And in the meantime, I'm not even going to think about it. I'm just going to have a nice cup of tea and watch Morning Coffee and blank my mind out completely.

  When I go into the kitchen, Dad's sitting at the table, reading the paper. There's the smell of toast in the air, and Radio Four in the background. Just like when I was younger and lived at home. Life was simple then. Life was so easy. No bills, no demands, no threatening letters. An enormous wave of nostalgia overcomes me, and I turn away to fill the kettle, blinking slightly.

  'Interesting news,' says Dad, jabbing at the Daily Telegraph.

  'Oh yes?' I say, putting a teabag in a mug. 'What's that?'

  'Scottish Prime have taken over Flagstaff Life.'

  'Oh right,' I say vaguely. 'Right. Yes, I think I'd heard that was going to happen.'

  'All the Flagstaff Life investors are going to receive huge windfall payments. The biggest ever, apparently.'

  'Gosh,' I say, trying to sound interested. I reach for a copy of Good Housekeeping, flick it open and begin to read my horoscope.

  But something's niggling at my mind. Flagstaff Life. Why does that sound familiar? Who was I talking to about . . .

  'Martin and Janice next door!' I exclaim suddenly. 'They're with Flagstaff Life! Have been for fifteen years.'

  'Then they'll do very well,' says Dad. 'The longer you've been with them, the more you get, apparently.'

  He turns the page with a rustle, and I sit down at the table with my cup of tea and Good Housekeeping open at an article on making Easter cakes. It's not fair, I find myself thinking resentfully. Why can't I get a windfall payment? Why doesn't Endwich Bank get taken over? Then they could pay me a windfall big enough to wipe out my overdraft. And preferably sack Derek Smeath at the same time.

  'Any plans for the day?' says Dad, looking up.

  'Not really,' I say, and take a sip of tea.

  Any plans for the rest of my life? Not really.

  In the end, I spend a pleasant, unchallenging morning helping Mum sort out a pile of clothes for a jumble sale, and at 12.30 we go into the kitchen to make a sandwich. As I look at the clock, the fact that I was supposed to be at Endwich Bank three hours ago flickers through my mind – but very far off, like a distant sound. My whole London life seems remote and unreal now. This is where I belong. Away from the madding crowd; at home with Mum and Dad, having a relaxed uncomplicated time.

  After lunch I wander out into the garden with one of Mum's mail-order catalogues, and go and sit on the bench by the apple tree. A moment later, I hear a voice from over the garden fence, and look up. It's Martin from next door. Hmmm. I'm not feeling very well disposed towards Martin at the moment.

  'Hello, Becky,' he says softly. 'Are you all right?'

  'I'm fine thanks,' I say shortly. And I don't fancy your son, I feel like adding. But then, they'd probably think I was in denial, wouldn't they?

  '
Becky,' says Janice, appearing beside Martin, holding a garden trowel. She gives me an awe-stricken look. 'We heard about your . . . stalker,' she whispers.

  'It's criminal,' says Martin fiercely. 'These people should be locked up.'

  'If there's anything we can do,' says Janice. 'Anything at all. You just let us know.'

  'I'm fine, really,' I say, softening slightly towards them. 'I just want to stay here for a while. Get away from it all.'

  'Of course you do,' says Martin. 'Wise girl.'

  'I was saying to Martin this morning,' says Janice, 'you should hire a bodyguard.'

  'Can't be too careful,' says Martin. 'Not these days.'

  'The price of fame,' says Janice, sorrowfully shaking her head. 'The price of fame.'

  'Well anyway,' I say, trying to get off the subject of my stalker. 'How are you?'

  'Oh we're both well,' says Martin. 'I suppose.' To my surprise there's a slightly forced cheerfulness to his voice. There's a pause, and he glances at Janice, who frowns, and shakes her head slightly.

  'Anyway, you must be pleased with the news,' I say brightly. 'About Flagstaff Life.'

  There's silence.

  'Well,' says Martin. 'We would have been.'

  'No-one could have known,' says Janice, giving a little shrug. 'It's just one of those things. Just the luck of the draw.'

  'What is?' I say puzzledly. 'I thought you were getting some huge great windfall.'

  'It appears . . .' Martin rubs his face. 'It appears not in our case.'

  'But . . . but why?'

  'Martin phoned them up this morning,' says Janice. 'To see how much we would be getting. They were saying in the papers that long-term investors would be getting thousands. But . . .' She glances at Martin.

  'But what?' I say, feeling a twinge of alarm.

  'Apparently we're no longer eligible,' says Martin awkwardly. 'Since we switched our investment. Our old fund would have qualified, but . . .' He coughs. 'I mean, we will get something – but it'll only be about £100.'