Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (22 page)

“Do you like it?” she says, a bit nervously.

“I love it!” I say, grabbing it from her hands and looking more closely at it. “Where did you get it?”

“I didn’t get it anywhere,” she says. “I made it.”

“What?” I stare at her. “You … made this?”

“Yes. During
Neighbours
. It was awful, actually. Beth found out about Joey and Skye.”

I’m completely astounded. How come Suze suddenly turns out to be so talented?

“So what do you reckon?” she says, taking the frame back and turning it over in her fingers. “Could I sell these?”

Could she sell these?

“Suze,” I say quite seriously. “You’re going to be a millionaire.”

And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and eating ice cream, as we always do when something good or bad happens to either one of us. We map out Suze’s career as a
high-flying businesswoman, and get quite hysterical trying to decide if she should wear Chanel or Prada when she goes to meet the queen. Somehow the discussion ends with us trying on each other’s smartest outfits (Suze looks really good in my new Hobbs dress, much better than me), and by the time I get into bed, I’ve forgotten all about Luke Brandon, and Bank of Helsinki, and the rest of my disastrous day.

The next morning, it all comes rushing back to me like a horror movie. I wake up feeling pale and shaky, and desperately wishing I could take a sickie. I don’t want to go to work. I want to stay at home under the duvet, watching daytime telly and being a millionairess entrepreneur with Suze.

But it’s the busiest week of the month, and Philip’ll never believe I’m ill.

So, somehow, I haul myself out of bed and into some clothes and onto the tube. At Lucio’s I buy myself an extralarge cappuccino, and a muffin,
and
a chocolate brownie. I don’t care if I get fat. I just need sugar and caffeine and chocolate, and as much as possible.

Luckily it’s so busy, no one’s talking very much, so I don’t have to bother telling everyone at the office what I did on my day off. Clare’s tapping away at something and there’s a pile of pages on my desk, ready for me to proofread. So after checking my e-mails—none—I scrunch miserably up in my chair, pick up the first one, and start to scan it.

“Market efficiencies dictate that greater risks must accompany greater reward. Fund managers understand the balance sheets and market momentum driving volatile stocks.”

Oh God, this is boring.

“These experts therefore minimize risk in a way that the average investor cannot. For the small-time investor …”

“Rebecca?” I look up, to see Philip approaching my desk, holding a piece of paper. He doesn’t look very happy, and for one
terrible moment, I think he’s spoken to Jill Foxton at William Green, has discovered everything, and is about to fire me. But as he gets nearer, I see it’s only some dull-looking press release.

“I want you to go to this instead of me,” he says. “It’s on Friday. I’d go myself, but I’m going to be tied up here with Marketing.”

“Oh,” I say without enthusiasm, and take the piece of paper. “OK. What is it?”

“Personal Finance Fair at Olympia,” he says. “We always cover it.”

Yawn. Yawn yawn yawn …

“Barclays are giving a champagne lunchtime reception,” he adds.

“Oh right!” I say, with more interest. “Well, OK. It sounds quite good. What exactly is it—”

I glance down at the paper, and my heart stops as I see the Brandon Communications logo at the top of the page.

“It’s basically just a big fair,” says Philip. “All sectors of personal finance. Talks, stands, events. Just cover whatever sounds interesting. I leave it up to you.”

“OK,” I say after a pause. “Fine.”

I mean, what do I care if Luke Brandon might be there? I’ll just ignore him. I’ll show him about as much respect as he showed me. And if he tries to talk to me, I’ll just lift my chin firmly in the air, and turn on my heel, and …

“How are the pages going?” says Philip.

“Oh, great,” I say, and pick the top one up again. “Should be finished soon.” He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.

“ … for the small-time investor, the risks attached to such stocks may outweigh the potential for reward.”

Oh God, this is boring. I can’t even bring myself to focus on what the words mean.

“More and more investors are therefore demanding the combination of stock-market performance with a high level of security.
One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically ‘tracks’ the top one hundred companies at any time …”

Hmm. Actually, that gives me a thought. I reach for my Filofax, flip it open, and dial Elly’s new direct number at Wetherby’s.

“Eleanor Granger,” comes her voice, sounding a bit far-off and echoey. Must be a dodgy line.

“Hi, Elly, it’s Becky,” I say. “Listen, whatever happened to Tracker bars? They’re really yummy, aren’t they? And I haven’t eaten one for …”

There’s a scuffly sort of sound on the line, and I gape at the receiver in surprise. In the distance, I can hear Elly, saying “I’m sorry. I’ll just be a …”

“Becky!” she hisses down the phone. “I was on speaker-phone! Our head of department was in my office.”

“Oh God!” I say, aghast. “Sorry! Is he still there?”

“No,” says Elly, and sighs. “God knows what he thinks of me now.”

“Oh well,” I say reassuringly. “He’s got a sense of humor, hasn’t he?”

Elly doesn’t reply.

“Oh well,” I say again, less certainly. “Anyway, are you free for a drink at lunchtime?”

“Not really,” she says. “Sorry, Becky, I’ve really got to go.” And she puts the phone down.

No one likes me anymore. Suddenly I feel a bit small and sad, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.

By the time Friday arrives, I have to say I feel a lot more cheerful. This is primarily because:

So as I get ready to go, I feel quite bouncy and positive. I put on my new gray cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots—dark gray suede—and I have to say, I look bloody good in them. God, I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn’t exist anymore.

As I’m about to leave, a pile of letters comes through the letterbox for me. Several of them look like bills, and one is yet another letter from Endwich Bank. But I have a clever new solution to all these nasty letters: I just put them in my dressing table drawer and close it. It’s the only way to stop getting stressed out about it. And it really does work. As I thrust the drawer shut and head out of the front door, I’ve already forgotten all about them.

The conference is buzzing by the time I get there. I give my name to the press officer at reception and I’m given a big, shiny courtesy carrier bag with the logo of HSBC on the side. Inside this, I find an enormous press pack complete with a photo of all the conference organizers lifting glasses of champagne to each other, a voucher for two drinks at the Sun Alliance Pimm’s Stand, a raffle ticket to win £1,000 (invested in the unit trust of my choice), a big lollipop advertising Eastgate Insurance, and my name badge with PRESS stamped across the top. There’s also a white envelope with the ticket to the Barclays Champagne Reception inside, and I put that carefully in my bag. Then I fasten my name
badge prominently on my lapel and start to walk around the arena.

Normally, of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge. But the great thing about being PRESS at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it’s just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I’ve accumulated two pens, a paper knife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save & Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. I’ve had two free cappuccinos, a
pain au chocolat
, some apple cider (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties, and my Pimm’s from Sun Alliance. (I haven’t written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question—but never mind.)

I’ve seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn’t mind one of those, so I’m just wandering along, trying to work out what direction they’re coming from, when a voice says, “Becky!”

I look up—and it’s Elly! She’s standing at the Wetherby’s display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.

“Hi!” I say delightedly. “How
are
you?”

“Fine!” she says, beaming. “Really getting along well.” And she does look the part, I have to say. She’s wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair’s tied back. The only thing I don’t go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it’s just to blend in with the others.

“God, I can’t believe you’re actually one of them!” I say, lowering my voice slightly. “I’ll be interviewing you next!” I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on
Panorama
. “‘Ms. Granger, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby’s Investments?’”

Elly gives a little laugh, then reaches into a box beside her.

“I’ll give you this,” she says, and hands me a brochure.

“Oh thanks,” I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.

“It’s actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby’s,” continues Elly. “You know we’re launching a whole new range of funds next month? There are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and …”

Why is she telling me this, exactly?

“Elly …”

“And US Growth!” she finishes triumphantly. There isn’t a flicker of humor in her eyes. Suddenly I find myself remembering Luke saying he wasn’t surprised by Elly joining Wetherby’s.

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Well, that sounds … fab!”

“I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,” she says. “Fill you in a bit more.”

What?

“No,” I say hurriedly. “No, it’s OK. So, erm … what are you doing afterward? Do you want to go for a drink?”

“No can do,” she says apologetically. “I’m going to look at a flat.”

“Are you moving?” I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can’t think why she’d want to move.

“Actually, I’m buying,” she says. “I’m looking around Streatham, Tooting … I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.”

“Right,” I say feebly. “Good idea.”

“You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,” she says. “You can’t hang around in a student flat forever. Real life has to begin sometime!” She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.

It’s not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines “real life”? Who says “real life” is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? “Shit-boring tedious life,” more like.

“Are you going to the Barclays Champagne Reception?” I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and have some fun together. But she pulls a little face and shakes her head.

“I might pop in,” she says, “but I’ll be quite tied up here.”

“OK,” I say. “Well, I’ll … I’ll see you later.”

I move away from the stand and slowly start walking toward the corner where the Champagne Reception’s being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly’s right and I’m wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, I’m missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone’s moving on without me, into a world I don’t understand.

But as I get near the entrance to the Champagne Reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits
don’t
rise at the thought of free champagne? It’s all being held in a huge tent, and there’s a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays key rings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, “Bear with me a moment.” Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit, and comes back. “Someone will be with you soon,” she says. “In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne.”

You see what I mean about being PRESS? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the press pack into my carrier bag, and take a sip. Oh, it’s delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I’ll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there’s none left. They won’t dare chuck me out, I’m PRESS. In fact, maybe I’ll …

“Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”

I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon’s standing in front of me, with an expression I can’t quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn’t going to work—
because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.

“Hi,” I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying hi to him?

“I was hoping you’d come,” he says in a low, serious voice. “I very much wanted to—”

“Yes,” I interrupt. “Well, I … I can’t talk, I’ve got to mingle. I’m here to work, you know.”

I’m trying to sound dignified, but there’s a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks flush as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off toward the other side of the tent. I don’t quite know where I’m heading, but I’ve just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.