Sophie Kinsella: Confessions of a Shopaholic

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring graphs begin, I have a flash of inspiration. Of course! I’ll pay cash for the scarf. No one can argue with cash. I can get £100 out on my cash card, so all I need is another £20, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it “Can you lend me twenty quid?” and pass it to Elly, who’s still surreptitiously listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she’s listening to. It can’t still be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, “No can do. Bloody machine swallowed my card. Living off luncheon vouchers at moment.”

Damn. I hesitate, then write, “What about credit card? I’ll pay you back, honest. And what are you listening to?”

I pass the page to her and suddenly the lights go up. The presentation has ended and I didn’t hear a word of it. People shift around on their seats and a PR girl starts handing out glossy brochures. Elly finishes her call and grins at me.

“Love life prediction,” she says, tapping in another number. “It’s really accurate stuff.”

“Load of old bullshit, more like.” I shake my head disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you go for all that rubbish. Call yourself a financial journalist?”

“No,” says Elly. “Do you?” And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals turns round and gives us an angry glare.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It’s Alicia, standing up at the front of the room. She’s got very good legs, I note resentfully. “As you can see, the Foreland Exotic Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach to investment.” She looks around the room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly.

“Exotic Opportunities,” I whisper scornfully to Elly and point to the leaflet. “Exotic prices, more like. Have you seen how much they’re charging?”

(I always turn to the charges first. Just like I always look at the price tag first.)

Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening to the phone.

“Foreland Investments are all about adding value,” Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. “Foreland Investments offer you more.”

“They charge more, you lose more,” I say aloud without thinking, and there’s a laugh around the room. God, how embarrassing. And now Luke Brandon’s lifting his head, too. Quickly I look down and pretend to be writing notes.

Although to be honest, I don’t know why I even pretend to write notes. It’s not as if we ever put anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments takes out a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month, and they took Philip on some fantastic research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year — so we’re never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are. Like that’s really any help to our readers.

As Alicia carries on speaking, I lean toward Elly.

“So, listen,” I whisper. “Can I borrow your credit card?”

“All used up,” hisses Elly apologetically. “I’m up to my limit. Why do you think I’m living off LVs?”

“But I need money!” I whisper. “I’m desperate! I need twenty quid!”

I’ve spoken more loudly than I intended and Alicia stops speaking.

“Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments, Rebecca,” says Alicia, and another titter goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawk at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They’re fellow journalists, for God’s sake. They should be on my side. National Union of Journalists solidarity and all that.

Not that I’ve ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.

“What do you need twenty quid for?” says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.

“I. . my aunt,” I say defiantly. “She’s in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.”

The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a £20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”

“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.

“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.

Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!

But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.

“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.

The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down — so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.

Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.

As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s Vogue, too? I’m about to ask him — then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white) — and something tells me he didn’t.

“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”

“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.

“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.

“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so. . impotent!”

“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us. .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It matters whether we arrive or not.”

“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”

“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”

“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”

He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.

“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”

Oh God.

“I. . ahm. . I’m going to. .”

I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.