Mini Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  ‘Oh hi!’ I leap up, relieved to escape. ‘How’s it going? Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’ He nods. ‘I just popped up to say goodnight to Minnie. She was asleep.’ He smiles ruefully and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him. He hardly ever sees Minnie these days.

  ‘She took all her toys to bed again,’ I tell him. ‘Including her dolls’ house.’

  ‘Again?’ He laughs.

  Minnie’s latest trick is to get out of bed after I’ve said goodnight, gather all her toys and take them back to bed with her, so there’s barely any room for her. I went up earlier this evening and found her fast asleep, clasping her wooden pony, with about twenty soft toys and her dolls’ house all on top of the duvet, crowding her out of bed.

  ‘Luke!’ Mum finally notices him and stops mid-flow through a tirade about how Dad never even has toast for breakfast so what does he know? ‘We were just discussing the situation.’

  ‘Situation?’ He raises his eyebrows at me in query.

  ‘We’re all trying to think of ways to save money,’ I explain, hoping Luke might say, ‘What a ludicrous idea, everything’s on the up, let’s crack open some champagne.’

  But he just nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s not a bad idea, the way things are going.’

  ‘But how are things going?’ Mum demands shrilly. ‘Luke, you know. Is the Daily World right or wrong? Because I heard a chap on the radio and he said there would be a domino effect. And we’re the dominoes!’

  ‘No, we’re not.’ Dad raises his eyes to heaven. ‘The banks are the dominoes.’

  ‘Well, what are we, then?’ Mum glares at him. ‘The dice?’

  ‘Jane,’ Luke interrupts tactfully. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear in the media. There are some extreme views out there. The truth is, it’s still too early to call. What I can say is, confidence has plummeted and there’s a lot of panic. Not just in banking, in every sector. Whether it’s justified … that’s the question.’

  I can tell Mum’s not satisfied.

  ‘But what do the experts say?’ she persists.

  ‘Luke is an expert!’ I chime in, indignantly.

  ‘Economic gurus aren’t fortune-tellers, unfortunately.’ Luke shrugs. ‘And they don’t always agree. What I would say is, it’s never a bad idea to be prudent.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Dad nods approvingly. ‘That’s what I was saying. Our spending has got quite out of hand, Jane, crisis or no crisis. Four pounds, this cost!’ He waves the jar of gooseberry jam. ‘Four pounds!’

  ‘Very well.’ Mum glares at Dad. ‘From now on, I’ll only shop at the pound shop. Will that make you happy, Graham?’

  ‘Me too!’ I say supportively

  I’ve never actually been to a pound shop, but they’ve got to be good. I mean, everything only costs a quid, for a start.

  ‘My darling, we’re not quite that penurious.’ Luke kisses me on the forehead. ‘The easiest way we could save money, if you ask me, would be if you wore some of your clothes more than once.’

  Not this again.

  ‘I do wear them more than once,’ I say crossly. ‘You always exaggerate—’

  ‘How often have you worn that cardigan with the red button?’ he asks innocently.

  ‘It’s … I’ve …’ I stop, a bit stymied.

  Damn. Why haven’t I worn it? I don’t even know where it is. Did I leave it somewhere?

  ‘A hundred times, wasn’t it?’ Luke looks as though he’s enjoying this. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘I’m intending to wear it a hundred times,’ I say stonily. ‘I didn’t specify exactly when.’

  ‘How many clothes have you got, anyway, stashed away in your cupboards?’

  ‘I … er …’

  ‘Do you have any idea?’

  ‘Too many,’ snorts Dad. ‘Are we going to count the boots cluttering up my garage?’

  ‘Any idea at all?’ persists Luke.

  ‘I don’t … It’s not …’ I trail off in confusion.

  What kind of question is that, anyway, ‘How many clothes have you got?’ It’s totally unreasonable.

  ‘How many clothes have you got?’ I retort, and Luke thinks for about one micro-second.

  ‘Nine suits, some too old to wear now. Around thirty shirts. Fifty or so ties. I should cull some. Evening wear. I don’t need to shop for another year, except for socks.’ He shrugs again. ‘And I won’t. Not in the current climate. I don’t think it would send the right signals to turn up to work in a new bespoke suit.’

  Trust Luke to have an answer.

  ‘Well, you’re a man. It’s different. I work in fashion, remember?’

  ‘I know,’ he says mildly. ‘My only point is that if you wore each of your clothes, say, three times, before buying anything new, your clothes bill might go down.’ He shrugs. ‘You said you wanted ideas to save money.’

  I didn’t want those kind of ideas. I wanted ideas involving things I’m not interested in, like petrol or insurance. But now I’m a bit stuffed.

  ‘Fine!’ I fold my arms. ‘I’ll wear every single item in my wardrobe three times before I even think of going shopping again. Satisfied?’

  ‘Yes.’ He flashes me a smile. ‘And I’m giving up my car plans. Just for now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Like I say. It’s not the moment.’

  Now I feel a bit humbled. Luke was planning to get a new car as a celebration as soon as the Arcodas case was over. It was, like, the prize. We’d gone for a test drive in one, and everything.

  Well, I suppose if he can do that, I can wear my clothes three times before I go shopping again. It’s not such a hardship.

  Anyway, I probably haven’t got that many. I try to visualize my wardrobe. I mean, it’s just a few tops and jeans and dresses, isn’t it? And a few things crammed in at the back. I’ll get through them all in a couple of weeks.

  ‘We’ll still be able to buy clothes for Minnie, won’t we?’ I look up in sudden alarm. ‘And she can still have her pocket money?’

  I’ve got quite used to Minnie having pocket money when we’re out and about. She spent another six months’ advance in the Bambino sale and got the most gorgeous half-price sparkly wellingtons. Plus it’s teaching her financial planning, because I’ve got it all written down in a book.

  ‘Of course Minnie can have her pocket money!’ Luke laughs. ‘And if she needs new clothes, she needs them. She’s a growing girl.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, trying not to feel envious.

  It’s all right for children. I wish I grew out of all my stuff every three months and had to replace it all.

  ‘Anyway, Becky, I thought the Bloomwood style was Make More Money.’ Luke breaks into my thoughts. He pulls out a chair and pours himself a glass of wine. ‘Maybe you could go back to work full-time, now we’re getting a nanny.’

  Aargh! No! It’s as though he’s fired a shot into the air with no warning; in fact I feel myself physically recoil. Why did he have to mention the word ‘nanny’, just like that with no preamble? I was going to soften Mum up first, maybe via general chit-chat about au pairs.

  ‘Nanny?’ Mum’s voice is instantly sharp. ‘What nanny? What are you talking about?’

  She manages to make ‘nanny’ sound like ‘serial killer’.

  I hardly dare look at her.

  ‘We just thought … it might be a good idea, to try and get some expert help …’ I cough. ‘I mean …’

  ‘Minnie’s spoiled,’ puts in Luke flatly. ‘She needs some structure and regulations.’

  Mum looks mortally offended.

  ‘She’s not spoiled by you, Mum, obviously,’ I add hurriedly. ‘It’s just … they have these amazing people called Ultimate Nannies who help to raise a well-balanced, accomplished child. They’re qualified in martial arts and everything.’

  ‘Martial arts?’ echoes Mum incredulously. ‘What does she need martial arts for, poor little love?’

  ‘And they’re trained in routines and chil
d development …’ I glance desperately at Luke for support.

  ‘We think it’s what Minnie needs,’ says Luke firmly. ‘We’re going to interview some candidates next week and I’m sure we’ll all get along marvellously.’

  ‘Well.’ Mum seems lost for words. ‘Well.’ She takes a swig of wine. ‘I see. Everything’s changing.’

  ‘Well, of course, arrangements would have had to change substantially anyway,’ begins Luke, ‘bearing in mind that we’ll be— Oof!’ He breaks off as I kick him hard on the ankle and glare at him.

  Does he have no tact? Is he just going to blurt out everything, right here, right now?

  We can’t tell Mum we’re moving out. Not on top of everything else. It’ll be the final straw. It’ll destroy her. She’ll sink into depression and probably spiral into some kind of breakdown.

  ‘What?’ Mum looks beadily from face to face. ‘Bearing in mind you’ll be what?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I say quickly. ‘Um, shall we go and watch telly?’

  ‘Becky?’ I can see Mum’s face working with alarm. ‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me?’

  Oh God, now I’m torn. If we don’t tell her the truth she’ll think something really awful’s happened. And after all, it is a family conference. Maybe this is the right time to break the news.

  ‘OK.’ I take a deep slurp of wine for courage. ‘Here’s the thing, Mum. Luke and I have found a lovely family house in Maida Vale. And we’ve had an offer accepted. And this one looks like it’s really going ahead. Which means we’ll be …’ I take a deep breath, hardly able to say it. ‘Mum, we’re moving out.’

  There’s a stunned, disbelieving silence in the room. No one seems able to speak.

  I shoot an agonized look at Luke. This is awful. I knew it would be bad, but I never thought it would be this bad.

  ‘You’re … going?’ Mum says at last, her voice cracking slightly. ‘You’re actually leaving us?’

  She’s devastated. It’s obvious. I can already feel the tears rising inside.

  ‘Yes, we’re going. In about four weeks’ time, probably.’ I swallow, my throat tight. ‘We have to have our own space. You must understand that, Mum. But we’ll come and visit loads, and you’ll still see Minnie, I promise, and—’

  Mum doesn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘They’re going! They’re going!’ She grabs Dad’s arm. ‘Did you hear that, Graham?’

  Hang on. She doesn’t sound that devastated. In fact, she sounds … delighted.

  ‘Is this true?’ Dad narrows his eyes.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Luke nods.

  ‘We can start having dinner parties again,’ says Mum breathlessly. ‘We can use the table! We can have guests to stay!’

  ‘I can use my workshop,’ Dad chimes in faintly. ‘At last.’

  ‘I’ll get my wardrobe back! And the utility room!’ Mum seems almost giddy with excitement. ‘Oh, Graham!’ To my astonishment she plants a kiss on Dad’s cheek. ‘I have to call Janice and tell her the good news!’

  Good news? What about the empty-nest syndrome? What about spiralling into depression?

  ‘But you said you didn’t want us to go!’ I say indignantly. ‘You said you were relieved those other houses fell through because you would have missed us so much!’

  ‘We were lying, love!’ says Mum merrily. ‘We didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Hello, it’s me, Janice!’ She turns to her mobile. ‘They’re going! Yes! Four weeks! Tell the others!’

  OK. Now I really am offended. Has the whole neighbourhood been waiting for us to go?

  Becky Brandon (Née Bloomwood)

  Official Clothes Audit

  PAGE 3 (OF 15)

  Jeans (cont’d)

  J Brand – cropped

  J Brand – bootcut

  Goldsign – skinny dark

  7 For All Mankind – distressed (two sizes too small)

  Balmain – black distressed

  Notify – black

  Notify – black (still in bag never worn)

  Theory – skinny stretch

  7 For All Mankind – studded

  7 For All Mankind – cut-offs

  Acne – frayed at knee

  Acne – ripped (tags still on)

  Cavalli – frayed and sequinned (still in bag)

  Paige Premium Denim, – boyfriend

  True Religion – grey wide leg

  Exercise wear

  Stella McCartney yoga pants

  Stella McCartney sleeveless top

  Black ballet leotard (unworn)

  Pink pointe ballet shoes (unworn)

  Black leggings – Sweaty Betty

  Grey leggings – Nike (still in bag with receipt)

  Black leggings ‘Anti-cellulite’ (never worn)

  Grey leggings – American Apparel

  Hip Hop graffiti dance pants (unworn)

  Sequinned ice dance costume

  American football outfit (for Hallowe’en party)

  Fred Perry tennis dress (white)

  Fred Perry tennis dress (pale blue)

  Professional drag-racing suit (still in box)

  CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE …

  CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT

  FOR MONETARY POLICY

  5th Floor

  180 Whitehall Place

  London SW1

  Ms Rebecca Brandon

  The Pines

  43 Elton Road

  Oxshott

  Surrey

  18 January 2006

  Dear Rebecca

  Thank you for your letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, which was passed to me.

  On his behalf, may I thank you for the sentiment that you ‘know how he feels’ and your thoughts on how to ‘get out of this mess’. Your father’s principles of ‘C.B.’ and ‘M.M.M.’ seem sound, as does the advice to ‘look around and sell some things you don’t need’.

  Thank you also for the kind gift of Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton – a book I was unfamiliar with. I am unaware of whether the Chancellor owns a copy, but will certainly pass it on to the Treasury along with the advice to ‘write everything down that he spends’.

  With thanks again for your interest

  Yours sincerely

  Edwin Tredwell

  Director of Policy Research

  SEVEN

  Why have I got so many clothes? Why? Why?

  I’ve finally collected them up from around the house and counted them all. And it’s a total disaster. There’s no way I’m going to get through them all in two weeks. Two years, more like.

  How can I have so many pairs of jeans? And T-shirts? And old cardigans that I’d forgotten about?

  On the plus side, I found a Whistles coat I’d totally forgotten about which will look fab with a belt. And some True Religion skinny jeans which were still in their plastic bag, stuffed under a pile of Lancôme gift sets.

  But on the downside, there are about eighteen grey T-shirts, all scraggy and shapeless. I don’t remember buying any of them. And some really mortifying sales buys. And the worst thing is, Luke told Jess I was doing an audit of my clothes and she decided to come over and help me. So I couldn’t do what I was planning, which was to hide all the clothes I hate in a plastic bag and secrete them out of the house.

  Jess was relentless. She made me write a list of every item and wouldn’t let me discount anything. Not the disastrous hot pants, not the revolting maroon leather waistcoat (what was I thinking?), not even all those old promotional T-shirts and shoes I’ve got free off magazines. And that’s before we get to the weird Indian clothes I bought on our honeymoon.

  If I have to wear that maroon leather waistcoat in public three times I’ll die.

  Morosely I look down at myself. I’m in one of my zillion unworn white shirts, with a pair of black trousers and a waistcoat layered over a long cardigan. This is the only way I’m going to survive – by layering as many pieces as possible every day and getting through them that way. Even so, according to Jess’s
calculations, I won’t need to go shopping until 23 October. And it’s still only January. I want to cry. Stupid, stupid banks.

  I was secretly hoping this whole financial crisis thing would be one of those very quick affairs that come and go and everyone says, ‘Ha, ha, silly us, what a fuss we made about nothing!’ Like that time when there was a report of an escaped tiger on the loose in Oxshott and everyone got hysterical, and then it turned out to be someone’s cat.

  But no one’s saying ‘Ha, ha, silly us.’ It’s all still in the papers and everyone’s still looking worried. This morning Mum very ostentatiously ate her toast without jam, shooting little resentful looks at Dad the whole time. I was sunk in gloom, trying not to look at the Christian Dior ad on the back of Dad’s newspaper, and even Minnie was subdued.

  And when I get to work, things are even more depressing. I run the personal-shopping department at The Look, which is a department store on Oxford Street. It didn’t start off too well, but recently it’s been on a roll. We’ve had loads of events, and great coverage in the media, and profits have been up. In fact we all got bonuses!

  But today the place is desolate. The women’s fashion floor is totally silent, and nearly all our appointments in the personal-shopping department have been called off. It’s a pretty depressing sight, a whole row of bookings with ‘Cancelled’ beside them.

  ‘Everyone said they’d got a cold,’ reports Jasmine, my colleague, as I’m leafing through the appointment book in dismay. ‘You’d think they could make up something more original.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Jasmine taps her pale-green nails, which totally clash with her violet leopard-print eyes. (Coloured lenses are her new fashion habit. Her own eyes are one blue, one green, so she says she’s already used to people staring at them and wondering if they’re real.)

  ‘Like they have to go to rehab,’ she says at last. ‘Or their coke-addict husband beat them up and they’ve had to go to a secret women’s refuge. That’s what I’d say.’

  God, Jasmine is warped. We couldn’t be more different, the two of us. Jasmine behaves as though she doesn’t care about anything, including her own clients. She tells people they look shit, they’ve got no style, their clothes should go in the bin … then she’ll toss some garment to them with a shrug and they’ll put it on and look so spectacular, they can’t not buy it. Sometimes they’ll get all gushy, or try to give her a hug and she’ll just roll her eyes and say ‘Jeez’.