The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  'I was—'

  We both speak at once.

  'No,' I say, flushing red. 'You go. Mine wasn't . . . You go.'

  'OK,' says Luke, and gives a little shrug. 'I was just going to ask if you'd like to have dinner tonight.'

  I stare at him, taken aback.

  What does he mean, have dinner? Does he mean—

  'To discuss a bit of business,' he continues. 'I very much liked your idea for a unit trust promotion along the lines of the January sales.'

  My what?

  What idea? What's he . . .

  Oh God, that. Is he serious? That was just one of my stupid, speak-aloud, brain-not-engaged moments.

  'I think it could be a good promotion for a particular client of ours,' he's saying, 'and I was wondering whether you'd like to consult on the project. On a freelance basis, of course.'

  Consult. Freelance. Project.

  I don't believe it. He's serious.

  'Oh,' I say, and swallow, inexplicably disappointed. 'Oh, I see. Well, I . . . I suppose I might be free tonight.'

  'Good,' says Luke. 'Shall we say the Ritz?'

  'If you like,' I say offhandedly, as though I go there all the time.

  'Good,' says Luke again, and his eyes crinkle into a smile. 'I look forward to it.'

  And then – oh God. To my utter horror, before I can stop myself, I hear myself saying bitchily, 'What about Sacha? Doesn't she have plans for you tonight?'

  Even as the words hit the air, I feel myself redden. Oh shit. What did I say that for?

  There's a long silence during which I want to slink off somewhere and die.

  'Sacha left, a week ago,' says Luke finally, and my head pops up.

  'Oh,' I say feebly. 'Oh dear.'

  'No warning – she packed up her suitcase and went.' Luke looks up. 'Still – it could be worse.' He gives a deadpan shrug. 'At least I didn't buy the holdall as well.'

  Oh God, now I'm going to giggle. I mustn't giggle. I mustn't.

  'I'm really sorry,' I manage at last.

  'I'm not,' says Luke, gazing at me seriously, and the laughter inside me dies away. I stare back at him nervously and feel my heart begin to pound.

  'Rebecca! Luke!'

  Our heads jerk round to see Zelda approaching the set, clipboard in hand.

  'Fantastic!' she exclaims. 'Just what we wanted. Luke, you were great. And Rebecca . . .' She comes and sits next to me on the sofa and pats my shoulder. 'You were so wonderful, we were thinking – how would you like to stand in as our phone-in expert later in the show?'

  'What?' I stare at her. 'But . . . but I can't! I'm not an expert on anything.'

  'Hahaha, very good!' Zelda gives an appreciative laugh. 'The great thing about you, Rebecca, is you've got the common touch. We see you as finance guru meets girl-next-door. Informative but approachable. Knowledgeable but down-to-earth. The financial expert people really want to talk to. What do you think, Luke?'

  'I think Rebecca will do the job perfectly,' says Luke. 'I can't think of anyone better qualified. I also think I'd better get out of your way.' He stands up and smiles at me. 'See you later, Rebecca. Bye, Zelda.'

  I watch in a daze as he picks his way across the cable-strewn floor towards the exit, half wishing he would look back.

  'Right,' says Zelda, and squeezes my hand. 'Let's get you sorted.'

  Twenty-Two

  I was made to go on television. That's the truth. I was absolutely made to go on television.

  We're sitting on the sofas again, Rory and Emma and me, and Anne from Leeds is falteringly admitting over the line that she's never once sent in a tax return.

  I glance at Emma and smile, and she twinkles back. I'm one of the team. One of the gang. I've never felt so warm and happy in all my life.

  What's really weird is that when it was me being interviewed, I felt all tongue-tied and nervous – but now I'm on the other side of the sofa, I'm in my element. God, I could do this all day. I don't even mind the bright lights any more. They feel normal. And I've practised the most flattering way to sit in front of the mirror ( knees together, feet crossed at the ankle) – and I'm sticking to it.

  'I've started doing some cleaning,' says Anne, 'and I never gave it a second thought. But now my employer's asked me if I've paid any tax. I mean, it didn't even occur to me.'

  'Oh dear,' says Emma, and glances at me. 'Anne's obviously in a bit of a spot.'

  'Absolutely,' I say sympathetically. 'Well the first thing to know, Anne, is that you may not have to pay any tax at all, if you're below the threshold. And the second thing is, you've still got plenty of time to get a tax return in and sort everything out.'

  That's the other really weird thing. God knows how – but I know the answers to all the questions. I know about mortgages, and I know about life assurance, and I know about pensions. I know this stuff! A few minutes ago, Kenneth from St Austell asked what the annual contribution limit for an ISA is – and I answered £5,000 without even thinking about it. It's almost as if some part of my mind has carefully been storing every single bit of information I've ever written in Successful Saving, and now, when I need it, it's all there. Ask me anything! Ask me . . . the rules on capital gains tax for home owners. Go on, ask me.

  'If I were you, Anne,' I finish, 'I'd contact your local Inland Revenue office and ask them for their advice. And don't be scared!'

  'Thanks,' says Anne's crackly voice. 'Thanks a lot, Rebecca.'

  'Well, I hope that helps you, Anne,' says Emma, and smiles at the camera. 'Now we're going to Davina for the news and weather – but then, since so many of you are ringing in, we'll be coming back to this phone-in on "Managing your Money".'

  'Lots of people with money problems out there,' chimes in Rory.

  'Absolutely,' says Emma. 'And we want to help. So whatever your query, however big or small, please call in for Rebecca Bloomwood's advice, on 0333 4567.' She freezes for a moment, smiling at the camera, then relaxes back in her chair as the light goes off. 'Well, this is going very well!' she says brightly, as a make-up girl hurries up and touches up her face with powder. 'Isn't it, Zelda?'

  'Fantastic!' says Zelda, appearing from out of the gloom. 'The lines haven't been this busy since we did "I'd like to meet a Spice Girl".' She looks curiously at me. 'Have you ever done a course in television presenting, Rebecca?'

  'No,' I say honestly. 'I haven't. But . . . I've watched a lot of telly.'

  Zelda roars with laughter.

  'Good answer! OK, folks, we're back in thirty.'

  Emma smiles at me and consults the piece of paper in front of her, and Rory leans back and examines his nails. They're treating me like a fellow professional, I think joyfully. They're treating me like one of them.

  I've never felt so completely and utterly happy. Never. Not even that time I found a Vivienne Westwood bustier for £60 in the Harvey Nichols sale. (I wonder where that is, actually. I must get round to wearing it some time.) This beats everything. Life is perfect.

  I lean back, full of contentment and am idly looking around the studio when an oddly familiar figure catches my eye. I peer harder, and my skin starts to prickle in horror. There's a man standing in the gloom of the studio – and honestly, I must be hallucinating or something, because he looks exactly like—

  'And . . . welcome back,' says Rory and my attention snaps back to the set. 'This morning's phone-in is on financial problems, big and small. Our guest expert is Rebecca Bloomwood and our next caller is Fran from Shrewsbury. Fran?'

  'Yes,' says Fran. 'Hi. Hi, Rebecca.'

  'Hi there, Fran,' I say, smiling warmly. 'And what seems to be the trouble?'

  'I'm in a mess,' says Fran. 'I . . . I don't know what to do.'

  'Are you in debt, Fran?' says Emma gently.

  'Yes,' says Fran, and gives a shaky sigh. 'I'm overdrawn, I owe money on all my credit cards, I've borrowed money off my sister . . . and I just can't stop spending. I just . . . love buying things.'

  'What sort of things?' says Rory i
nterestedly.

  'I don't know, really,' says Fran after a pause. 'Clothes for me, clothes for the kids, things for the house, just rubbish, really. Then the bills arrive . . . and I throw them away.'

  Emma gives me a significant look, and I raise my eyebrows back.

  'Rebecca?' she says. 'Fran's obviously in a bit of a spot. What should she be doing?'

  'Well, Fran,' I say kindly. 'The first thing you've got to do is be brave, and confront your problem. Contact the bank and tell them you're having trouble managing. They're not monsters! They want to help.' I turn directly to the camera and look earnestly into the lens. 'Running away won't solve anything, Fran. The longer you leave it, the worse it'll get.'

  'I know,' comes Fran's wobbly voice. 'I know you're right. But it's not easy.'

  'I know,' I say sympathetically. 'I know it's not. Just hang in there, Fran.'

  'Rebecca,' says Emma. 'Would you say this a common problem?'

  'I'm afraid it is,' I reply, turning back to her. 'Sadly, a lot of people out there simply don't put financial security first.'

  'Oh dear,' says Emma, shaking her head sorrowfully. 'That's not good.'

  'But it's never too late,' I continue. 'As soon as they turn that corner, and wake up to their responsibilities, their lives are transformed.'

  I make a confident sweeping gesture with my arm, and as I do so, my gaze takes in the whole studio. And . . . Oh my God it's him.

  I'm not hallucinating.

  It's really him. Standing at the corner of the set, wearing a security badge and sipping something in a polystyrene cup as though he belongs here. Derek Smeath is standing here in the Morning Coffee studios, ten yards away from me.

  Derek Smeath of Endwich Bank.

  But it . . . it can't be.

  But it is. It's Derek Smeath. I don't understand. What's he doing here?

  Oh God, and now he's staring straight at me.

  My heart begins to pound, and I swallow hard, trying to keep control of myself.

  'Rebecca?' Emma says, and I force myself to turn my attention back to the show. I can't even remember what we're talking about. 'So you think Fran should go and see her bank manager?'

  'I . . . ahm . . . that's right,' I say, my cheeks suddenly burning red.

  What am I going to do? He's staring right at me. I can't escape.

  'So,' says Emma. 'You think that once Fran faces up to reality, she'll be able to get her life in order.'

  'That's right,' I say like an automaton, and force myself to smile brightly at Emma. But underneath, my confident happiness is evaporating. Derek Smeath is here. I can't block him out of my vision; I can't forget about him.

  And now all the parts of my life I'd so carefully buried at the back of my mind are starting to worm their way out again. I don't want to remember any of them – but I've got no choice. Here they come, wriggling into my mind, one piece of horrible reality after another.

  'Well,' says Rory. 'Let's all hope Fran takes Rebecca's very good advice.'

  My row with Suze. My disastrous date with Tarquin. A nasty cold feeling starts trickling down my spine.

  'Now our next caller,' says Emma, 'is John from Luton. John?'

  'Hi, Rebecca,' comes a voice down the line. 'Thing is, I was given an insurance policy when I was a child, but I've lost all the papers. And now I'd like to get hold of the dosh, know what I mean?'

  My VISA card, cancelled. My Octagon card, confiscated in front of that whole crowd. God, that was humiliating.

  OK, stop it. Concentrate. Concentrate.

  'This is actually quite a common problem,' I hear myself saying. 'Do you remember which company the policy was with?'

  'No,' says John. 'Not a clue.'

  My bank account. Thousands of pounds of debt. Derek Smeath.

  Oh God. I feel sick. I want to run and hide somewhere.

  'Well, you still should be able to trace it,' I continue, forcing myself to keep smiling. 'You could start with an agency which specializes in this sort of thing. I can check this for you, but I think their name is . . .'

  My whole terrible, disorganized life. It's all there, isn't it? Waiting for me, like a great big spider. Just waiting to pounce, as soon as this phone-in ends.

  'We're out of time, I'm afraid,' says Emma, as I come to an end. 'Many thanks to our financial expert, Rebecca Bloomwood, and I'm sure we'll all be heeding her wise words. Coming up after the break, the results of our makeover in Newcastle and Heaven Sent 7, live in the studio.'

  There's a frozen pause – then everyone relaxes.

  'Right,' says Emma, consulting her piece of paper. 'Where are we next?'

  'Good work, Rebecca,' says Rory cheerfully. 'Excellent stuff.'

  'Oh Zelda!' says Emma, leaping up. 'Could I have a quick word? That was fab, Rebecca,' she adds. 'Really fab.'

  Suddenly they're both gone. And I'm left alone on the set, exposed and vulnerable, desperately avoiding Derek Smeath's eye and thinking as quickly as I can.

  Maybe I could slip out at the back.

  Or maybe I could stick it out here on the sofa. Just sit here until he gets bored and leaves. I mean, he won't dare to come onto the actual set, will he?

  Maybe I could pretend to be someone else. God, yes. I mean, with all this makeup on, I practically look like someone else, anyway.

  Anyway – it suddenly occurs to me – who's to say he's even noticed me? He's probably here for some completely other reason. He's probably going to appear on the show or something. Exactly. Nothing to do with me. So I'll just get up and walk briskly past, and it'll all be fine.

  'Excuse me, love,' says a man in jeans, coming onto the set. 'I need to shift this sofa along.'

  'Oh, right,' I say, leaping up. As I do, I mistakenly catch the eye of Derek Smeath again. He's still looking right at me. He's waiting for me.

  Oh God.

  OK, it'll be fine – just keep walking. Just keep walking and pretend you don't recognize him.

  Deliberately avoiding his gaze, I stand up, take a deep breath and walk briskly across the set. My pace doesn't falter; my expression doesn't waver. My eyes are fixed firmly on the double doors, and I'm doing well. Just a few more steps now. Just a few more . . .

  'Miss Bloomwood.' His voice hits the back of my head like a bullet and for an instant I consider ignoring it. Possibly even diving for the doors. But Zelda and Emma are standing nearby. They'll have heard him calling my name. I can't get out of it.

  So I turn round, and give what I think is a very convincing double-take, as though recognizing him for the first time.

  'Oh, hello, it's you!' I say brightly. 'What a surprise. How are you?'

  A technician gestures to us to keep our voices down, and Derek Smeath firmly ushers me out of the studio, into a foyer area. He turns to me and I give him a confident smile. Perhaps we can keep it all at a social level.

  'Miss Bloomwood—'

  'Lovely weather we're having,' I say. 'Don't you think?'

  'Miss Bloomwood, our meeting,' says Derek Smeath tightly.

  Oh God. I was hoping he might have forgotten about that.

  'Our meeting,' I echo thoughtfully. 'Erm . . .' Then I have a sudden inspiration. 'That's right. It's tomorrow, isn't it? I'm really looking forward to it.'

  Derek Smeath looks as though he's going to explode. 'It is not tomorrow! It was on Monday morning. And you failed to turn up!'

  'Oh,' I say. 'Oh, that meeting. Yes, sorry about that. I meant to come, honestly. It's just . . . It's just that

  But I can't think of a single good excuse. I've used them all up. So I tail off feebly, and bite my lip, feeling like a naughty child.

  'Miss Bloomwood,' says Derek Smeath wearily. 'Miss Bloomwood . . .' He rubs his face with his hand, then looks up. 'Do you know quite how long I have been writing letters to you? Do you know how long I've been trying to get you into the bank for a meeting?'

  'Ahm . . . I'm not quite—'

  'Six months,' says Derek Smeath, and pauses. 'Six long months of exc
uses and prevarication. Now, I'd just like you to think about what that means for me. It means endless letters. Numerous phone calls. Hours of time and effort on my part and that of my assistant, Erica. Resources which, quite frankly, could be better spent elsewhere.' He gestures sharply with his polystyrene cup and some coffee slops out of the side onto the floor. 'Then finally I pin you down to a cast-iron appointment. Finally I think you're taking your situation seriously . . . And you don't turn up. You disappear completely. I telephone your home to find out where you are – and get accused most unpleasantly of being some kind of stalker!'

  'Oh yes,' I say, and pull an apologetic face. 'Sorry about that. It's just my dad, you know. He's a bit weird.'

  'I'd all but given up on you,' says Derek Smeath, his voice rising. 'I'd all but given up. And then I'm passing a television shop this morning – and what should I see, on six different screens, but the missing, vanished Rebecca Bloomwood, advising the nation. And what are you advising them on?' He begins to shake with laughter. (At least, I think it's laughter.) 'Finance! You are advising the British public . . . on finance!'

  I stare at him crossly. It's not that funny.

  'Look, I'm very sorry I couldn't make the last meeting,' I say, trying to sound businesslike. 'Things were a bit difficult for me at that time. But if we could reschedule . . .'

  'Reschedule!' cries Derek Smeath, as though I've just cracked a hysterical joke. 'Reschedule!'

  I gaze at him indignantly. He's not taking me seriously at all, is he? He's not even listening to what I'm saying. I'm telling him I want to come in for a meeting – I actually want to – and he's just treating me like a joke. He's treating me like some sort of comedy act.

  And no wonder, interrupts a tiny voice inside me. Look at the way you've behaved. Look at the way you've treated him. Frankly it's a wonder he's being civil to you at all.

  I look up at his face, still crinkled in laughter . . . and feel rather chastened.

  Because the truth is, he could have been a lot nastier to me than he has been. He could have taken my card away a long time ago. Or sent the bailiffs round. Or had me blacklisted. He's actually been very nice to me, one way or another.

  'Listen,' I say quickly. 'Please. Give me another chance. I really want to sort my finances out. I want to repay my overdraft. But I need you to help me. I'm . . .' I swallow. 'I'm asking you to help me, Mr Smeath.'