Sophie Kinsella: Confessions of a Shopaholic

I’ve only met him a few times, and I’ve always felt slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he’s got such a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Philip, my boss. He started Brandon Communications from nothing, and now it’s the biggest financial PR company in London. A few months ago he was listed in The Mail as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs of his generation. It said his IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory.

But it’s not just that. It’s that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he’s talking to me. It’ll probably turn out that the famous Luke Brandon is not only a complete genius but he can read minds, too. He knows that when I’m staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I’m really thinking about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.

“You know Alicia, don’t you?” Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.

I don’t know Alicia, as it happens. But I don’t need to. They’re all the same, the girls at Brandon C, as they call it. They’re well dressed, well spoken, are married to bankers, and have zero sense of humor. Alicia falls into the identikit pattern exactly, with her baby-blue suit, silk Hermès scarf, and matching baby-blue shoes, which I’ve seen in Russell and Bromley, and they cost an absolute fortune. (I bet she’s got the bag as well.) She’s also got a suntan, which must mean she’s just come back from Mauritius or somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.

“Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” I say, equally coolly.

“It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.”

“No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself.

Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.

“So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?”

Oh God. What’s she talking about?

“It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?

“I have to say, I think it’s bad news for the industry,” says Alicia earnestly. “But of course, you must have your own views.”

She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again.

“I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

“Were you expecting it?” Alicia says. “I know you journalists are always ahead of the game.”

“I. . I certainly saw it coming,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I sound convincing.

“And now this rumor about Scottish Prime and Flagstaff Life going the same way!” She looks at me intently. “Do you think that’s really on the cards?”

“It’s. . it’s difficult to say,” I reply, and take a gulp of champagne. What rumor? Why can’t she leave me alone?

Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He’s staring at me, his mouth twitching slightly. Oh shit. He knows I don’t have a clue, doesn’t he?

“Alicia,” he says abruptly, “that’s Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you—”

“Absolutely,” she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly toward the door.

“And Alicia—” adds Luke, and she quickly turns back. “I want to know exactly who fucked up on those figures.”

“Yes,” gulps Alicia, and walks off.

God he’s scary. And now we’re on our own. I think I might quickly run away.

“Well,” I say brightly. “I must just go and. .”

But Luke Brandon is leaning toward me.

“SBG announced that they’ve taken over Rutland Bank this morning,” he says quietly.

And of course, now that he says it, I remember that front-page headline.

“I know they did,” I reply haughtily. “I read it in the FT.” And before he can say anything else, I walk off, to talk to Elly.

As the press conference is about to start, Elly and I sidle toward the back and grab two seats together. We’re in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows, facing a podium and a large screen. I open my notebook, write “Brandon Communications” at the top of the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Elly’s dialing her telephone horoscope on her mobile phone.

I take a sip of champagne, lean back, and prepare to relax. There’s no point listening at press conferences. The information’s always in the press pack, and you can work out what they were talking about later. In fact, I’m wondering whether anyone would notice if I took out a pot of Hard Candy and did my nails, when suddenly the awful Alicia ducks her head down to mine.

“Rebecca?”

“Yes?” I say lazily.

“Phone call for you. It’s your editor.”

“Philip?” I say stupidly. As though I’ve a whole array of editors to choose from.

“Yes.” She looks at me as though I’m a moron and gestures to a phone on a table at the back. Elly gives me a questioning look and I shrug back. Philip’s never phoned me at a press conference before.

I feel rather excited and important as I walk to the back of the room. Perhaps there’s an emergency at the office. Perhaps he’s scooped an incredible story and wants me to fly to New York to follow up a lead.

“Hello, Philip?” I say into the receiver — then immediately I wish I’d said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple “Yep.”

“Rebecca, listen, sorry to be a bore,” says Philip, “but I’ve got a migraine coming on. I’m going to head off home.”

“Oh,” I say puzzledly.

“And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me.”

An errand? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.

“I’m not sure,” I say discouragingly. “I’m a bit tied up here.”

“When you’ve finished there. The Social Security Select Committee is releasing its report at five o’clock. Can you go and pick it up? You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference.”

What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can’t pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf.

“Can’t Clare go?” I say. “I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on. .” What am I supposed to be writing about this month? “On mortgages.”

“Clare’s got a briefing in the City. And Westminster’s on your way home to Trendy Fulham, isn’t it?”

Philip always has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

“You can just hop off the tube,” he’s saying, “pick it up, and hop back on again.”

Oh God. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report. I should just about make it.

“Fine,” I say. “Leave it to me.”

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words Far Eastern Opportunities appear on the screen in front of us. There is a colorful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand, and other exotic places, which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can’t relax, or even feel sorry for the new girl from Portfolio Week, who’s frantically trying to write everything down and will probably ask five questions because she thinks she should. I’m too concerned about my scarf. What if I don’t make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic.