“It was fine,” I say, walking into my bedroom. “It was . . . nice.”
“Nice?” Suze's eyes narrow and she follows me in. “Only nice?”
“It was . . . good.”
“Good? Bex, what's wrong? Didn't you have a lovely time?”
I wasn't really planning to say anything to Suze, because after all, I don't know the facts yet. Plus I read in a magazine recently that couples should try to sort their problems out alone, without recourse to others. But as I look at her warm, friendly face, I just can't help it, I hear myself blurting out, “Luke's moving to New York.”
“Really?” says Suze, missing the point. “Fantastic! God, I love New York. I went there three years ago, and—”
“Suze, he's moving to New York—but he hasn't told me.”
“Oh,” says Suze, looking taken aback. “Oh, right.”
“And I don't want to bring it up, because I'm not supposed to know, but I keep thinking, why hasn't he told me? Is he just going to . . . go?” My voice is rising in distress. “Will I just get a postcard from the Empire State Building saying, ‘Hi, I live in New York now, love Luke'?”
“No!” says Suze at once. “Of course not! He wouldn't do that!”
“Wouldn't he?”
“No. Definitely not.” Suze folds her arms and thinks for a few moments—then looks up. “Are you absolutely sure he hasn't told you? Like, maybe when you were half asleep or daydreaming or something?”
She looks at me expectantly and for a few moments I think hard, wondering if she could be right. Maybe he told me in the car and I just wasn't listening. Or last night, while I was eyeing up that girl's Lulu Guinness handbag in the bar . . . But then I shake my head.
“No. I'm sure I'd remember if he'd mentioned New York.” I sink down miserably onto the bed. “He's just not telling me because he's going to chuck me.”
“No, he's not!” retorts Suze. “Honestly, Bex, men never mention things. That's just what they're like.” She picks her way over a pile of CDs and sits cross-legged on the bed beside me. “My brother never mentioned when he got done for drugs. We had to find it out from the paper! And my father once bought a whole island without telling my mother.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes! And then he forgot about it, too. And he only remembered when he got this letter out of the blue inviting him to roll the pig in the barrel.”
“To do what?”
“Oh, this ancient ceremony thing,” says Suze vaguely. “My dad gets to roll the first pig, because he owns the island.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “In fact, he's always looking for people to do it instead of him. I don't suppose you fancy doing it this year, do you? You get to wear this funny hat, and you have to learn a poem in Gaelic, but it's quite easy . . .”
“Suze—”
“Maybe not,” says Suze hurriedly. “Sorry.” She leans back on my pillow and chews a fingernail thoughtfully. Then suddenly she looks up. “Hang on a minute. Who told you about New York? If it wasn't Luke?”
“Alicia,” I say gloomily. “She knew all about it.”
“Alicia?” Suze stares at me. “Alicia Bitch Longlegs? Oh, for goodness' sake. She's probably making it up. Honestly, Bex, I'm surprised you even listened!”
And she sounds so sure that I feel my heart giving a joyful leap. Of course. That must be the answer. Didn't I suspect it myself? Didn't I tell you what Alicia was like?
The only thing—tiny niggle—is I'm not sure Suze is completely 100 percent unbiased here. There's a bit of history between Suze and Alicia, which is that they both started working at Brandon Communications at the same time—but Suze got the sack after three weeks and Alicia went on to have a high-flying career. Not that Suze really wanted to be a PR girl, but still.
“I don't know,” I say doubtfully. “Would Alicia really do that?”
“Of course she would!” says Suze. “She's just trying to wind you up. Come on, Bex, who do you trust more? Alicia or Luke?”
“Luke,” I say after a pause. “Luke, of course.”
“Well, then!”
“You're right,” I say, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “You're right! I should just trust him, shouldn't I? I shouldn't listen to gossip and rumors!”
“Exactly. Here are your letters. And your messages.”
“Ooh, thanks!” I say, and take the bundle with a little pang of excited hope. Because you never know, do you, what might have happened while you're away? Maybe one of these envelopes is a letter from a long-lost friend, or an exciting job offer, or news that I've won a holiday!
But of course, they aren't. It's just one boring old bill after another, which I leaf through dismissively before dropping the whole lot to the floor without even opening them.
You know, this always happens. Whenever I go away, I always think I'll come back to mountains of exciting post, with parcels and telegrams and letters full of scintillating news—and I'm always disappointed. In fact, I really think someone should set up a company called holidaypost.com which you would pay to write you loads of exciting letters, just so you had something to look forward to when you got home.
I turn to my phone messages—and Suze has written them down really conscientiously:
Your mum—what are you wearing to Tom and Lucy's wedding?
Your mum—don't wear violet as it will clash with her hat.
Your mum—Luke does know it's morning dress?
Your mum—Luke is definitely coming, isn't he?
David Barrow—please could you ring him.
Your mum—
Hang on. David Barrow. Who's that?
“Hey, Suze!” I yell. “Did David Barrow say who he was?”
“No,” says Suze, appearing in the hall. “He just said could you ring him.”
“Oh right.” I look at the message, feeling faintly intrigued. “What did he sound like?” Suze screws up her nose.
“Oh, you know. Quite posh. Quite . . . smooth.”
I'm a little excited as I dial the number. David Barrow. It sounds almost familiar. Maybe he's a film producer or something!
“David Barrow,” comes his voice—and Suze is right, he is quite posh.
“Hello!” I say. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood. I had a message to call you.”
“Ah, Miss Bloomwood! I'm the special customer manager of La Rosa.”
“Oh.” I screw up my face puzzledly. La Rosa? What on earth's—
Oh yes. That trendy boutique in Hampstead. But I've only been in there about once, and that was ages ago. So why is he calling me?
“May I say, first, what an honor it is to have a television personality of your caliber as one of our customers.”
“Oh! Well—thank you!” I say, beaming at the phone. “It's a pleasure, actually.”
This is great. I know exactly why he's calling. They're going to give me some free clothes, aren't they? Or maybe . . . yes! They want me to design a new line for them! God, yes. I'll be a designer. They'll call it the Becky Bloomwood collection. Simple, stylish, wearable garments, with maybe one or two evening dresses . . .
“This is simply a courtesy call,” says David Barrow, interrupting my thoughts. “I just want to ensure that you are completely happy with our service and ask if you have any other needs we can help you with.”
“Well—thanks!” I say. “I'm very happy, thanks! I mean, I'm not exactly a regular customer but—”
“Also to mention the small matter of your outstanding La Rosa Card account,” adds David Barrow as though I haven't spoken. “And to inform you that if payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.”
I stare at the phone, feeling my smile fade. This isn't a courtesy call at all, is it? He doesn't want me to design a collection of clothes. He's phoning about money!
I feel slightly outraged. Surely people aren't just allowed to telephone you in your own home and demand money with no warning? I mean, obviously I'm going to pay them. Just because I don't send a check off the m
oment the bill comes through the letter box . . .
“It has been three months now since your first bill,” David Barrow is saying. “And I must inform you that our policy after the three-month period is to hand over all outstanding accounts to—”
“Yes, well,” I interrupt coolly. “My . . . accountants are dealing with all my bills at the moment. I'll speak to them.”
“I'm so glad to hear it. And of course, we look forward to seeing you again in La Rosa very soon!”
“Yeah, well,” I say grumpily. “Maybe.”
I put the phone down as Suze comes past the door again, dragging another black bin bag. “Suze, what are you doing?” I say, staring at her.
“I'm decluttering!” she says. “It's brilliant. So cleansing! You should try it! So—who was David Barrow?”
“Just some stupid bill I hadn't paid,” I say. “Honestly! Phoning me at home!”
“Ooh, that reminds me. Hang on . . .”
She disappears for a moment, then appears again, holding a bundle of envelopes.
“I found these under my bed when I was tidying up, and this other lot were on my dressing table . . . I think you must have left them in my room.” She pulls a face. “I think they're all bills, too.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, and throw them onto the bed.
“Maybe . . .” says Suze hesitantly, “maybe you should pay some of them off? You know. Just one or two.”
“But I have paid them off!” I say in surprise. “I paid them all off in June. Don't you remember?”
“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Yes, of course I do.” She bites her lip. “But the thing is, Bex . . .”
“What?”
“Well . . . that was a while ago, wasn't it? And maybe you've built up a few debts since then.”
“Since June?” I give a little laugh. “But that was only about five minutes ago! Honestly, Suze, you don't need to worry. I mean . . . take this one.” I reach randomly for an envelope. “I mean, what have I bought in M&S recently? Nothing!”
“Oh right,” says Suze, looking relieved. “So this bill will just be for . . . zero, will it.”
“Absolutely,” I say ripping it open. “Zero! Or, you know, ten quid. You know, for the odd pair of knickers—”
I pull out the account and look at it. For a moment I can't speak.
“How much is it?” says Suze in alarm.
“It's . . . it's wrong,” I say, trying to stuff it back in the envelope. “It has to be wrong. I'll write them a letter . . .”
“Let me see.” Suze grabs the bill and her eyes widen. “Three hundred sixty-five pounds? Bex—”
“It has to be wrong,” I say—but my voice is holding less conviction. I'm suddenly remembering those leather trousers I bought in the Marble Arch sale. And that dressing gown. And that phase I went through of eating M&S sushi every day.
Suze stares at me for a few minutes, her face creased anxiously.
“Bex—d'you think all of these other bills are as high as that?”
Silently I reach for the envelope from Selfridges, and tear it open. Even as I do so, I'm remembering that chrome juicer, the one I saw and had to have . . . I've never even used it. And that fur-trimmed dress. Where did that go?
“How much is it?”
“It's . . . it's enough,” I reply, pushing it quickly back inside, before she can see that it's well over £400.
I turn away, trying to keep calm. But I feel alarmed and slightly angry. This is all wrong. The whole point is, I paid off my cards. I paid them off. I mean, what's the point of paying off all your credit cards if they all just go and sprout huge new debts again? What is the point?
“Look, Bex, don't worry,” says Suze. “You'll be OK! I just won't cash your rent check this month.”
“No!” I exclaim. “Don't be silly. You've been good enough to me already! I don't want to owe you anything. I'd rather owe M&S.” I look round and see her anxious face. “Suze, don't worry! I can easily put this lot off for a bit.” I hit the letter. “And meanwhile, I'll get a bigger overdraft or something. In fact, I've just asked the bank for an extension—so I can easily ask for a bit more. In fact, I'll phone them right now!”
“What, this minute?”
“Why not?”
I pick up the phone again, reach for an old bank statement, and dial the Endwich number.
“You see, there really isn't a problem,” I say reassuringly. “One little phone call is all it'll take.”
“Your call is being transferred to the Central Endwich Call Center,” comes a tinny voice down the line. “Kindly memorize the following number for future use: 0800 . . .”
“What's going on?” says Suze.
“I'm being transferred to some central system,” I say, as Vivaldi's Four Seasons starts to play. “They'll probably be really quick and efficient. This is great, isn't it? Doing it all over the phone.”
“Welcome to Endwich Bank!” says a new woman's voice in my ear. “Please key in your account number.”
What's my account number? Shit! I've got no idea—
Oh yes. On my bank statement.
“Thank you!” says a voice as I finish pressing the numbers. “Now please key in your personal identification number.”
What?
Personal identification number? I didn't know I had a personal identification number. Honestly! They never told me—
Actually . . . maybe that does ring a slight bell.
Oh God. What was it again? Seventy-three-something? Thirty-seven-something?
“Please key in your personal identification number,” repeats the voice pleasantly.
“But I don't know my bloody personal identification number!” I say. “Quick, Suze, if you were me, what would you choose as a personal identification number?”
“Ooh!” says Suze. “Um . . . I'd choose . . . um . . . 1234?”
“Please key in your personal identification number,” says the voice, with a definite edge to it this time.
God, this is really stressful.
“Try my number for my bicycle lock,” suggests Suze. “It's 435.”
“Suze—I need my number. Not yours.”
“You might have chosen the same! You never know!”
“Please key in—”
“All right!” I yell, and punch in 435.
“I'm sorry,” intones the voice. “This password is invalid.”
“I knew it wouldn't work!”
“It might have done!” says Suze defensively.
“It should be four digits, anyway,” I say, having a sudden flash of memory. “I had to phone up and register it . . . and I was standing in the kitchen . . . and . . . yes! Yes! I'd just got my new Karen Millen shoes, and I was looking at the price tag . . . and that was the number I used!”
“How much were they?” says Suze in excitement.
“They were . . . £120 reduced to . . . to £84.99!”
“Punch it in! 8499!”
Excitedly I punch in 8499—and to my disbelief, the voice says, “Thank you! You are through to the Endwich Banking Corporation. Endwich—because we care. For debt control, press one. For mortgage arrears, press two. For overdrafts and bank charges, press three. For . . .''
“Right! I'm through.” I exhale sharply, feeling a bit like James Bond breaking the code to save the world. “Am I debt control? Or overdrafts and bank charges?”
“Overdrafts and bank charges,” says Suze knowledgeably.
“OK.” I press three and a moment later a cheerful singsong voice greets me.
“Hello! Welcome to the Endwich Central Call Center. I'm Dawna, how can I help you, Miss Bloomwood?''
“Oh, hi!” I say, taken aback. “Are you real?”
“Yes!” says Dawna, and laughs. “I'm real. Can I help you?”
“Erm . . . yes. I'm phoning because I need an extension to my overdraft. A few hundred pounds if that's all right. Or, you know, more, if you've got it . . .”
“I see,” says Dawna pleasantly. �
�Was there a specific reason? Or just a general need?”
She sounds so nice and friendly, I feel myself start to relax.
“Well, the thing is, I've had to invest quite a bit in my career recently, and a few bills have come in, and kind of . . . taken me by surprise.”
“Oh right,” says Dawna sympathetically.
“I mean, it's not as if I'm in trouble. It's just a temporary thing.”
“A temporary thing,” she echoes, and I hear her typing in the background.
“I suppose I have been letting things mount up a bit. But the thing was, I paid everything off! I thought I'd be able to relax for a bit!”
“Oh right.”
“So you understand?” I give a relieved beam to Suze, who offers me thumbs-up in return. This is more like it. Just one quick and easy call, like in the adverts. No nasty letters, no tricky questions . . .
“I completely understand,” Dawna's saying. “It happens to us all, doesn't it?”
“So—can I have the overdraft?” I say joyfully.
“Oh, I'm not authorized to extend your overdraft by more than £50,” says Dawna in surprise. “You'll have to get in touch with your branch overdraft facilities director. Who is a . . . let me see . . . Fulham . . . a Mr. John Gavin.”
I stare at the phone in dismay.
“But I've already written to him!”
“Well, that's all right, then, isn't it? Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I say. “No, I don't think so. Thanks anyway.”
I put down the phone disconsolately.
“Stupid bank. Stupid call center.”
“So are they going to give you the money?” asks Suze.
“I don't know. It all depends on this John Gavin bloke.” I look up and see Suze's anxious face. “But I'm sure he'll say yes,” I add hastily. “He's just got to review my file. It'll be fine!”
“I suppose if you just don't spend anything for a while, you'll easily get back on track, won't you?” she says hopefully. “I mean, you're making loads of money from the telly, aren't you?”
“Yes,” I say after a pause, not liking to tell her that after rent, taxi fares, meals out, and outfits for the show, it doesn't actually amount to that much.
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 38
