Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (18 page)

“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.

And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I really
need
some new boots—and I’ve seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I’ll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube …

By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already.

O
N MONDAY MORNING
I wake early, feeling rather hollow inside. My gaze flits to the pile of unopened carrier bags in the corner of my room and then quickly flits away again. I know I spent too much money on Saturday. I know I shouldn’t have bought two pairs of boots. I know I shouldn’t have bought that purple dress. In all, I spent … Actually, I don’t want to think about how much I spent. Think about something else, quick, I instruct myself. Something else. Anything’ll do.

I’m well aware that at the back of my mind, thumping quietly like a drumbeat, are the twin horrors of Guilt and Panic.

Guilt Guilt Guilt Guilt.

Panic Panic Panic Panic.

If I let them, they’d swoop in and take over. I’d feel completely paralyzed with misery and fear. So the trick I’ve learned is simply not to listen. My mind is very well trained like that.

My other trick is to distract myself with different thoughts and activities. So I get up, switch the radio on, take a shower, and get dressed. The thumping’s still there at the back of my head, but gradually, gradually, it’s fading away. As I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, I can barely hear it anymore. A cautious
relief floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I’m going to be all right.

On the way out I pause in the hall to check my appearance in the mirror (Top: River Island, Skirt: French Connection, Tights: Pretty Polly Velvets, Shoes: Ravel) and reach for my coat (Coat: House of Fraser sale). Just then the post plops through the door, and I go to pick it up. There’s a handwritten letter for Suze and a postcard from the Maldives. And for me, there are two ominous-looking window envelopes. One from VISA, one from Endwich Bank.

For a moment, my heart stands still. Why another letter from the bank? And VISA. What do they want? Can’t they just leave me alone?

Carefully I place Suze’s post on the ledge in the hall and shove my own two letters in my pocket, telling myself I’ll read them on the way to work. Once I get on the tube, I’ll open them both and I’ll read them, however unpleasant they may be.

Honestly. As I’m walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.

But then I turn into the next street—and there’s a skip outside someone’s house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.

And a little thought creeps into my mind.

My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I’m interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, trying to appear casual, until the builders have gone back into the house and no one’s looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over the side, into the skip.

Gone.

As I’m standing there, a builder pushes past me with two
sacks of broken plaster, and heaves them into the skip. And now they really are gone. Buried beneath a layer of plaster, unread. No one will ever find them.

Gone for good.

Quickly I turn away from the skip and begin to walk on again. Already my step’s lighter and I’m feeling buoyant.

Before long, I’m feeling completely purged of guilt. I mean, it’s not my fault if I never read the letters, is it? It’s not my fault if I never got them, is it? As I bound along toward the tube station I honestly feel as though neither of those letters ever existed.

When I arrive at work, I switch on my computer, click efficiently to a new document, and start typing my piece on pensions. Perhaps if I work really hard, it’s occurred to me, Philip will give me a raise. I’ll stay late every night and impress him with my dedication to the job, and he’ll realize that I’m considerably undervalued. Perhaps he’ll even make me associate editor, or something.

“These days,” I type briskly, “none of us can rely on the government to take care of us in our old age. Therefore pension planning should be done as early as possible, ideally as soon as you are earning an income.”

“Morning, Clare,” says Philip, coming into the office in his overcoat. “Morning, Rebecca.”

Hah! Now is the time to impress him.

“Morning, Philip,” I say, in a friendly-yet-professional manner. Then, instead of leaning back in my chair and asking him how his weekend was, I turn back to my computer and start typing again. In fact, I’m typing so fast that the screen is filled with lots of splodgy typos. It has to be said, I’m not the best typist in the world. But who cares? I look very businesslike, that’s the point.

“The bwst ootion is oftwn yoor compaamy occupatinoa Ischeme, bt if tehis is not posibsle, a wide vareiety of peronanlas
penion lans is on ther markte, ranign from …” I break off, reach for a pension brochure, and flip quickly through it, as though scanning for some crucial piece of information.

“Good weekend, Rebecca?” says Philip.

“Fine, thanks,” I say, glancing up from the brochure as though surprised to be interrupted while I’m at work.

“I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,” he says. “The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.”

“Right,” I say absently.

“It’s the place to be, these days, isn’t it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.”

“I suppose so,” I say vaguely.

“That’s what we’ll have to call you,” he says, and gives a little guffaw. “The office It-girl.”

“Right,” I say, and smile at him. After all, he’s the boss. He can call me whatever he—

Hang on a minute. Philip hasn’t got the idea that I’m rich, has he? He doesn’t think I’ve got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?

“Rebecca,” says Clare, looking up from her telephone. “I’ve got a call for you. Someone called Tarquin.”

Philip gives a little grin, as though to say “What else?” and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration. This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I’ve got some kind of private income, he’ll never give me a raise.

But what on earth could have given him that idea?

“Becky,” says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.

“Oh,” I say. “Yes, OK.” I pick up the receiver, and say, “Hi. Rebecca Bloomwood here.”

“Becky” comes Tarquin’s unmistakable, reedy voice. He sounds rather nervous, as if he’s been gearing up to this phone call for ages. Perhaps he has. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. You know, I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Really?” I say, trying not to sound too encouraging. I mean, he is Suze’s cousin and I don’t want to hurt the poor bloke.

“I’d … I’d very much like to spend some more time in your company,” he says. “May I take you out to dinner?”

Oh God. What am I supposed to say to that? It’s such an innocuous request. I mean, it’s not as if he’s said, Can I sleep with you? or even Can I kiss you? If I say no to dinner, it’s like saying “You’re so unbearable, I can’t even stand sharing a table with you for two hours.”

And Suze has been so sweet to me recently, and if I turn her darling Tarkie down flat, she’ll be really upset.

“I suppose so,” I say, aware that I don’t sound too thrilled—and also aware that maybe I should just come clean and say “I don’t fancy you.” But somehow I can’t face it. To be honest, it would be a lot easier just to go out to dinner with him. I mean, how bad can it be?

And anyway, I don’t have to actually go. I’ll call at the last moment and cancel. Easy.

“I’m in London until Sunday,” says Tarquin.

“Let’s make it Saturday night, then!” I say brightly. “Just before you leave.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“How about eight?” I suggest.

“OK,” he says. “Eight o’clock.” And he rings off, without mentioning a venue. But since I’m not actually going to meet him, this doesn’t really matter. I put the phone down, give an impatient sigh, and start typing again.

“Although solid investment performance is important, flexibility is equally vital when choosing a pension plan, particularly for the younger investor. New on the market this year is the …” I break off and reach for a brochure. “Sun Assurance ‘Later Years’ Retirement Plan, which …”

“So, was that guy asking you out?” says Clare Edwards.

“Yes, he was, actually,” I say, looking up carelessly. And in
spite of myself, I feel a little flip of pleasure. Because Clare doesn’t know what Tarquin’s like, does she? For all she knows, he’s incredibly good-looking and witty. “We’re going out on Saturday night.” I give her a nonchalant smile and start typing again.