The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  But he might.

  Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. I'm beginning to feel as though I genuinely do have a stalker.

  As the advert break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. 'Look at this lovely birdbath,' she says. 'I'm going to get one for the garden.'

  'Great,' I mutter, unable to concentrate.

  'They've got some super windowboxes, too,' she says. 'You could do with some nice windowboxes in your flat.'

  'Yes,' I say. 'Maybe.'

  'Shall I put you down for a couple? They're not expensive.'

  'No, it's OK.'

  'You can pay by cheque, or VISA…' she says, flipping over the page.

  'No, really, Mum,' I say, my voice sharpening slightly.

  'You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered-'

  'Mum, stop it!' I cry. 'I don't want them, OK?'

  Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look, and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn't work. My Switch card doesn't work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.

  Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table, and begin to leaf through it blindly.

  'It's a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn't it?' says Mum, looking up. 'Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!'

  'I know,' I mumble, staring down at a page of listings.

  I don't want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.

  'It seems a terrible coincidence,' says Mum, shaking her head. 'That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.' She looks at the television. 'Oh look, it's starting again.'

  The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I'm not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I'm thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence – but it wasn't exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn't they? A carriage clock.

  Why did they do that?

  Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life – and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.

  '"ENDING",' says Mum, staring at the screen. 'That's six. Ooh, there's an S. Can you have "ENDINGS"?'

  'I'm just… popping next door,' I say, getting to my feet. 'I won't be a minute.'

  As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.

  'Hi,' I say sheepishly. 'I was just wondering – could we have a quick chat?'

  'Of course!' says Martin. 'Come on in! Would you like a sherry?'

  'Oh,' I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I'm against drinking, obviously – but it isn't even five o'clock yet. 'Well – OK then.'

  'Never too early for a sherry!' says Martin.

  'I'll have another one, thanks, Martin,' comes Janice's' voice from the sitting room.

  Blow me down. They're a pair of alcoholics!

  Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.

  'I was just wondering,' I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. 'Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.'

  'It arrived the very day we saw you,' says Martin. 'Why do you want to see it?' He raises his glass. 'Your good health.'

  'Cheers,' I say, and take a sip. 'I'm just wondering-'

  'Come into the living room,' he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. 'Here you are, my love,' he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. 'Bottoms up!'

  'Sssh,' she replies. 'It's the numbers game! I need to concentrate.'

  'I thought I might do a little investigation into this,' I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. 'I feel so bad about it.'

  'Fifty times 4 is 200,' says Janice suddenly. 'Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.'

  'Well done, love!' says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. 'Here's the letter,' he says. 'So do you want to write an article or something?'

  'Possibly,' I say. 'You wouldn't mind, would yau?

  'Mind?' He gives a little shrug. 'No, I wouldn't think so.'

  'Sssh!' says Janice. 'It's the Countdown Conundrum.'

  'Right,' I whisper. 'Well I'll just… I'll just take this, shall I?'

  'Explicate!' yells Janice. 'No, Exploited!'

  'And… thanks for the sherry.' I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.

  Half an hour later, sitting in my bedroom, I've read the letter from Flagstaff Life several times and I'm sure there's something fishy about it. How many investors must have switched funds after receiving this crappy carriage clock offer – and missed out on their windfall?

  More to the point, how much money must Flagstaff Life have saved? Suddenly I really want to know. And more than that, I really want to write about it. For the first time in my life, I'm actually interested in a financial story.

  And I don't just want to write it up for crappy Successful Saving, either.

  Eric Foreman's card is still in my purse, with his direct telephone number printed at the top, and I take it out. I stare at it for a moment, then go to the phone and quickly punch in the number before I can change my mind.

  'Eric Foreman, Daily World,' comes his voice, booming down the line.

  Oh God. Am I really doing this?

  'Hi,' I say nervously. 'I don't know if you remember me. Rebecca Bloomwood from Successful Saving. We met at the Sacrum Asset Management press conference. '

  'That's right, so we did,' he says cheerfully. 'How are you, my love?'

  'I'm fine,' I say, and clench my hand tightly around the receiver. 'Absolutely fine. Ahm… I was just wondering, are you still running your series on "Can we Trust the Money Men?"'

  'We are, as it goes,' says Eric Foreman. 'Why?'

  'It's just…' I swallow. 'It's just, I think I've got a story that might interest you.'

  Seventeen

  I have never before worked so hard on an article. Never.

  Mind you, I've never before been asked to write one so quickly. At Successful Saving, we get a whole month to write our article – and we complain about that. When Eric Foreman said, 'Can you do it by tomorrow?' I thought he was joking at first. I jauntily replied, 'Of course!' and nearly added, 'In fact, I'll have it with you in five minutes' time!' Then, just in time, I realized he was serious. Crikey.

  So I'm round at Martin and Janice's first thing the next morning with a Dictaphone, writing down exactly all the information their investment and trying to get in lots of heart-wrenching details, as advised by Eric.

  'We need human interest,' he told me over the phone. 'None of your dull financial reporting here. Make us feel sorry for them. Make us weep. A hardworking, ordinary couple, who thought they could rely on a few savings to see them through their old age. Ripped off by the fat cats. What kind of house do these people live in?'

  'Ahmm… a four-bedroomed detached house in Surrey.'

  'Well, for Christ's sake don't put that in!' he boomed. 'I want honest, poor and proud. Never demanded a penny off the state, saved to provide for themselves. Trusted a respectable financial institution. And all it did was kick them in the face.' He paused, and it sounded as if he might be picking his teeth. 'That kind of thing. Think you can manage it?'

  'I… ahm… yes! Of course!' I stuttered.

  Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. Oh God, what have
I got myself into?

  But it's too late to change my mind now. So the next thing is to persuade Janice and Martin that they don't mind appearing in the Daily World. The trouble is, it's not exactly the Financial Times, is it? Or even the normal Times. (Still, as I remind them, it could be a lot worse. It could be the Sun – and they'd end up sandwiched between a topless model and a blurred paparazzi shot of Posh Spice.)

  Luckily, however, they're so bowled over that I'm making all this effort on their behalf, they don't seem to care which newspaper I'm writing for. And when they hear that a photographer's coming over at midday to take their picture, you'd think the Queen was coming to visit.

  'My hair!' says Janice in dismay, staring into the mirror. 'Have I time to get Maureen in to give me a blow-dry?'

  'Not really. And it looks lovely,' I say reassuringly. 'Anyway, they want you as natural as possible. Just… honest, ordinary people.' I glance around the living room, trying to pick up poignant details to put into my article.

  An anniversary card from their son stands proudly on the well-polished mantelpiece. But this year there will be no celebration for Martin and Janice Webster.

  'I must phone Phyllis!' says Janice. 'She won't believe it!'

  'You weren't ever a soldier, or anything?' I say thoughtfully to Martin. 'Or a… a fireman? Anything like that. Before you became a travel agent.

  'Not really, love,' says Martin, wrinkling his brow. 'Just the Cadets at school.'

  'Oh, right,' I say, brightening. 'That might do.'

  Martin Webster fingers the cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves. But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg. The Daily World asks…

  'I've photocopied all the documents for you,' says Martin. 'All the paperwork. I don't know if it'll be any use…

  'Oh, thanks,' I say, taking the pile of pages from him. 'I'll have a good read through these.'

  When honest Martin Webster received a letter from Flagstaff Life, inviting him to switch investment funds, he trusted the money men to know what was best for him.

  Two weeks later he discovered they had tricked him out of a ?20,000 windfall.

  "My wife is ill as a result of all this," he said. 'I'm so worried.'

  Hmmm.

  'Janice?' I say, looking up casually. 'Do you feel all right? Not… unwell, or anything?'

  'A bit nervous, to be honest, dear,' she says, looking round from the mirror. 'I'm never very good at having my picture taken.'

  "My nerves are shot to pieces,' said Mrs Webster in a ragged voice. I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.'

  'Well, I think I've got enough now,' I say, getting up and switching off my Dictaphone. 'I might have to slightly digress from what's on the tape – just to make the story work. You don't mind, do you?'

  'Of course not!' says Janice. 'You write what you like, Becky! We trust you.'

  'So what happens now?' says Martin.

  'I'll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,' I say. 'Get them to give their defence.'

  'What defence?' says Martin. 'There is no defence for what they did to us!'

  'I know,' I say and grin at him. 'Exactly.'

  As I go back home and up to my bedroom, I'm full of happy adrenalin. All I need to do is get a quote from Flagstaff Life, and I can start writing the piece. I haven't got long: it needs to be finished by two o'clock if it's going to make tomorrow's edition. God, this is exciting. Why has work never seemed so exciting before?

  Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff's number – only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press enquiries are dealt with out-of-house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.

  'Hello,' says a smooth voice. 'Brandon Communications.'

  Oh God, of course. Suddenly I feel a bit shaky. The word 'Brandon' has hit me right in the stomach like a punch. I'd forgotten all about Luke Brandon. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the rest of my life. And frankly, I don't want to be reminded of it.

  But it's OK – I don't have to speak to him personally, do I?

  'Hi!' I say. 'It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Ermm… I just wanted to talk to somebody about Flagstaff Life.'

  'Let me check…' says the voice. 'Yes, that's Luke Brandon's client. I'll just put you through to his assistant…' And the voice disappears before I can say anything.

  Oh God.

  Oh God, I can't do this. I can't speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them I'm not reading them. I'm remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harrods. That horrible plunge in my stomach when I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A joke. A nothing,

  OK, I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can do it. I'll just be very stern and businesslike and ask my questions, and-

  'Rebecca!' comes a voice in my ear. 'How are you! It's Alicia here.'

  'Oh,' I say in surprise. 'I thought I was going to speak to Luke. It's about Flagstaff Life.'

  'Yes, well,' says Alicia. 'Luke Brandon is a very busy man. I'm sure I can answer any questions you have.'

  'Oh, right,' I say, and pause. 'But they're not your client, are they?'

  'I'm sure that won't matter in this case,' she says, and gives a little laugh. 'What did you want to know?'

  'Right' I say, and look at my list. 'Was it a deliberate policy for Flagstaff Life to invite their investors to move out of with-profits just before they announced windfalls? Some people lost out a lot, you know.'

  'Right…' she says. 'Thanks, Camilla, I'll have smoked salmon and lettuce.'

  'What?' I say.

  'Sorry, yes, I am with you,' she says. 'Just jotting it down… I'll have to get back to you on that, I'm afraid.'

  'Well, I need a response soon!' I say. 'My deadline's in a few hours.'

  'Got that,' says Alicia. Suddenly her voice goes muffled. 'No, smoked salmon. OK then, Chinese chicken. Yes.' The muffle disappears. 'So, Rebecca, any other questions? Tell you what, shall I send you our latest press pack? That's bound to answer any other queries. Or you could fax in your questions.'

  'Fine,' I say curtly. 'Fine, I'll do that.' And I put the phone down.

  For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can't even be bothered to take my questions seriously.

  Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one's ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they'll ring me back and not bothering. I've never minded before – I've rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to 'Greensleeves' (at least it beats working). I've never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.

  But today, I do care. Today what I'm doing does seem important, and I do want to be taken seriously.

  Well, I'll show her, I think fiercely. I'll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.

  With a sudden determination I reach for my dad's typewriter. I feed in some paper, switch on my Dictaphone, take a deep breath and begin to type.

  REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

  THE PINES

  43 ELTON ROAD

  OXSHOTT

  SURREY

  FAX MESSAGE FOR

  ERIC FOREMAN

  DAILY WORLD

  FROM

  REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

  28 March 2000

  Dear Eric

  I enclose my 950-word article on Flagstaff Life and the lost windfalls. I do hope you like it.

  With best wishes

  Rebecca Bloomwood

  Financial Journalist

  Eighteen

  The next morning, I wake at six in the morning. It's pathetic, I know, but I'm as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day (or as me on
Christmas Day, to be perfectly honest).

  I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid back and not think about it – but I just can't resist it. My mind is swimming with images of all the piles of newspapers in all the newsagents, all over the country. Of all the copies of the Daily World being dropped on people's doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what's in the news.

  And what are they going to see?

  They're going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in the Daily World! My first national by-line. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' Doesn't that sound cool? 'By Rebecca Bloomood.'

  I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they've got it on a colour page – so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full colour. Really high profile. I can't quite believe it. The Daily World!

  Even as I'm lying here, it occurs to me, there's already a whole pile of Daily Worlds at the newsagent in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsagent opens at… what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it's five past six. So in theory, I could go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsagent and buy one.

  Not that I would, of course. I'm not quite so sad and desperate that I'm going to rush down as soon as the shop's opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I'll do is just saunter down casually later on – perhaps at eleven or midday – pick up the paper and flip through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won't even bother to buy a copy. I mean – I've seen my name in print before, haven't I? It's hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.

  I'm going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can't think why I'm awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm… close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about something else… I wonder what I'll have for breakfast when I get up?

  But I've never seen my name in the Daily World, have I? says a little voice in my head. I've never seen it in a national newspaper.