Confessions of a Shopaholic (16 page)

Please let the girl find something else she likes, I pray feverishly. Please let her forget all about the jeans. Maybe she’s not even that keen on them. Maybe she picked them up on impulse. She didn’t really look like a jeans person to me.

A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.

“All right?” she says. “Coping, are you?”

“I’m doing fine,” I say. “Really enjoying it.”

“I’m just rostering in breaks,” she says. “If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.”

“Fine,” I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I’m thinking
Three? I’ll be starving
!

“Good,” she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says,

“Hi. Can I have those jeans now?”

It’s the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she Houdini?

“Hi!” I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. “Any good? That black skirt’s really nice. I think it would really suit you. The way the splits go at the—”

“Not really,” she says, interrupting me, and shoves the lot back at me, all mussed up and off their hangers. “It was really the jeans I wanted. Can I have them?”

I stare at her desperately. I
can’t
relinquish my treasured jeans. I just know this girl wouldn’t love them like I would. She’d probably wear them once and chuck them out—or never wear them at all! And
I saw them first
.

“What jeans were they?” I say, wrinkling my brow sympathetically. “Blue ones? You can get them over there, next to the—”

“No!” says the girl impatiently. “The zebra-print jeans I had a minute ago.”

“Oh,” I say vaguely. “Oh yes. I’m not sure where they went. Maybe someone else took them.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she says, looking at me as if I’m an imbecile. “This is ridiculous! I gave them to you about thirty seconds ago! How can you have lost them?”

Shit. She’s really angry. Her voice is getting quite loud, and people are starting to look. Oh,
why
couldn’t she have liked the black skirt instead?

“Is there a problem?” chimes in a syrupy voice, and I look up in horror. Danielle’s coming over toward us, a sweet-but-menacing look on her face. OK, keep calm, I tell myself firmly. No one can prove anything either way.

“I gave this assistant a pair of jeans to look after because I had four items, which is apparently too many,” the girl begins explaining.

“Four items?” says Danielle. “But you’re allowed four items in the fitting room.” And she turns to look at me with an expression which isn’t very friendly.

“
Are
you?” I say innocently. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was three. I’m new,” I add apologetically.

“I
thought
it was four!” says the girl. “I mean, you’ve got tokens with bloody ‘Four’ written on them!” She gives an impatient sigh. “So anyway, I gave her the jeans, and tried on the other things—and then I came out for the jeans, and they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” says Danielle sharply. “Gone where?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, trying to look as baffled as the next person. “Maybe another customer took them.”

“But you were holding them!” says the girl. “So what—did someone just come up to you and whip them out of your fingers?”

I flinch at the tone of her voice. I would never speak to a shop assistant like that, even if I was cross. Anyway, how can she be so obsessed with a pair of
jeans
?

“Maybe you could get another pair from the rack,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Or some capri pants? I bet you’d look really nice in—”

“There
isn’t
another pair,” she says icily. “They were from the reduced rack. And I don’t like capri pants.”

“Rebecca, think!” says Danielle. “Did you put the jeans down somewhere?”

“I must have done,” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “It’s been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and . . . and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.” I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say “Customers, eh?”

“Wait a minute!” says the girl sharply. “What’s that?”

I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.

“Gosh!” I manage at last. “There they are!”

“And what exactly are they doing down there?” asks Danielle.

“I don’t know!” I say. “Maybe they . . .” I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. “Maybe . . .”

“You
took
them!” says the girl incredulously. “You bloody took them! You wouldn’t let me try them on, and then you hid them!”

“That’s ridiculous!” I say, trying to sound convincing—but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red.

“You little . . .” The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. “I want to make an official complaint.”

“Rebecca,” says Danielle. “Into my office, please.”

I jump in fright at her voice and follow her slowly to her office. Around the shop, I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. How utterly mortifying. Still, it’ll be OK. I’ll just say I’m really sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don’t get . . .

I don’t believe it. She’s fired me. I haven’t even worked there for a day, and I’ve been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I almost became tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)

As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today—and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.

It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—

“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .

“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”

Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever—but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt and . . . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?

“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying.
Surely
she didn’t mean . . .

“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”

“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”

But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.

And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!

“Hi,” says Lucy.

“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”

“Oh,
you’re
Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.

What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.

“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.

“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully—and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”

“No!” I say, a little too sharply.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”

God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.

“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”

“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”

“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.

“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”

I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything—but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.

“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”

“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”

“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”

“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am I
surrounded
by City high-flyers?

“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”

What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.

“And we’re not catching our train just yet,” says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. “We’re off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy’s birthday next week.” He lifts a hand and starts twisting a lock of her hair round his finger.

I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s not fair. Why haven’t
I
got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany’s?

“Well, lovely to see you,” I gabble. “Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn’t mention Lucy,” I can’t resist adding. “I saw them the other day, and they didn’t mention her once.”

I shoot an innocent glance at Lucy. But she and Tom are exchanging looks again.

“They probably didn’t want to—” begins Tom, and stops abruptly.

“What?” I say.

There’s a long, awkward silence. Then Lucy says, “Tom, I’ll just look in this shop window for a second,” and walks off, leaving the two of us alone.

God, what drama! I’m obviously the third person in their relationship.

“Tom, what’s going on?” I say, and give a little laugh.

But it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s still hankering after me. And Lucy knows it.

“Oh God,” says Tom, and rubs his face. “Look, Rebecca, this isn’t easy for me. But the thing is, Mum and Dad are aware of your . . . feelings for me. They didn’t want to mention Lucy to you, because they thought you’d be . . .” He exhales sharply. “Disappointed.”

What? Is this some kind of
joke
? I have never been more dumbfounded in all my life. For a few seconds I can’t even move for astonishment.

“My feelings for
you
?” I stutter at last. “Are you joking?”

“Look, it’s pretty obvious,” he says, shrugging. “Mum and Dad told me how the other day, you kept on asking how I was, and all about my new house . . .” There’s a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can’t stand this. How can he think . . . “I really like you, Becky,” he adds. “I just don’t . . .”

“I was being
polite
!” I roar. “I don’t
fancy
you!”

“Look,” he says. “Let’s just leave it, shall we?”

“But I
don’t
!” I cry furiously. “I never did fancy you! That’s why I didn’t go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?”

I break off and look at him triumphantly—to see that his face hasn’t moved a bit. He isn’t listening. Or if he is, he’s thinking that the fact I’ve dragged in our teenage past means I’m obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he’ll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.

“OK,” I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. “OK, we’re obviously not communicating here, so I’ll just leave you to it.” I glance over at Lucy, who’s looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening. “Honestly, I’m not after your boyfriend,” I call. “And I never was. Bye.”

And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.

As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing’s laughable. That Tom Webster should think I’m in love with
him
. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I’ll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own.

I know all this. I know I shouldn’t care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so . . . I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend? There isn’t even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, who sells advertising for
Portfolio News
, and we split up three months ago. And I didn’t even much like him. He used to call me “Love” and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive me
mad
. Just remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.

But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn’t he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn’t have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.

I give a gusty sigh, stand up, and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn’t been a great day. I’ve lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven’t got anything to do tonight. I thought I’d be too knackered after working all day, so I didn’t bother to organize anything.

Still, at least I’ve got twenty quid.

Twenty quid. I’ll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. And a couple of magazines.