Sophie Kinsella: Confessions of a Shopaholic

I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.

“It’s not that important,” I mumble.

“I don’t believe that,” he says nicely.

Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up — and thank goodness, it’s my stop.

“Good luck,” I say, hastily getting up. “I really hope you get there in time.”

As I walk along the pavement I’m feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what’s more important? Clothes — or the miracle of new life?

As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner — and feel a jolt. There’s a girl coming toward me and she’s carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.

Oh my God.

What if she’s got my scarf?

What if she asked for it specially and that assistant sold it to her, thinking I wasn’t going to come back?

My heart starts to beat in panic and I begin to stride along the street toward the shop. As I arrive at the door and push it open, I can barely breathe for fear. What if it’s gone? What will I do?

But the blond girl smiles as I enter.

“Hi!” she says. “It’s waiting for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say in relief and subside weakly against the counter.

I honestly feel as though I’ve run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a “reduced by 50 percent” sign.

I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful.

That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag — and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.

I walk slowly out of the shop, still in a haze of delight. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf! I’ve got. .

“Rebecca.” A man’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up and my stomach gives a lurch of horror. It’s Luke Brandon.

Luke Brandon is standing on the street, right in front of me, and he’s staring down at my carrier bag. I feel myself growing flustered. What’s he doing here on the pavement anyway? Don’t people like that have chauffeurs? Shouldn’t he be whisking off to some vital financial reception or something?

“Did you get it all right?” he says, frowning slightly.

“What?”

“Your aunt’s present.”

“Oh yes,” I say, and swallow. “Yes, I. . I got it.”

“Is that it?” He gestures to the bag and I feel a guilty blush spread over my cheeks.

“Yes,” I say eventually. “I thought a. . a scarf would be nice.”

“Very generous of you. Denny and George.” He raises his eyebrows. “Your aunt must be a stylish lady.”

“She is,” I say, and clear my throat. “She’s terribly creative and original.”

“I’m sure she is,” says Luke, and pauses. “What’s her name?”

Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I had a chance. Now I’m paralyzed. I can’t think of a single female name.

“Erm. . Ermintrude,” I hear myself saying.

“Aunt Ermintrude,” says Luke thoughtfully. “Well, give her my best wishes.”

He nods at me, and walks off, and I stand, clutching my bag, trying to work out if he guessed or not.

ENDWICH BANK

FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road

London SW6 9JH

Ms. Rebecca BloomwoodFlat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD

17 November 1999

Dear Ms. Bloomwood: I am sorry to hear that you have glandular fever.When you have recovered, perhaps you would be kind enough to ring my assistant, Erica Parnell, and arrange a meeting to discuss your situation.Yours sincerely,Derek SmeathManager

ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE

I WALK THROUGH THE door of our flat to see Suze, my flatmate, sitting in one of her strange yoga positions, with her eyes closed. Her fair hair is scrunched up in a knot, and she’s wearing black leggings together with the ancient T-shirt she always wears for yoga. It’s the one her dad was wearing when he rowed Oxford to victory, and she says it gives her good vibes.

For a moment I’m silent. I don’t want to disturb her in case yoga is like sleepwalking and you’re not meant to wake people when they’re doing it. But then Suze opens her eyes and looks up — and the first thing she says is “Denny and George! Becky, you’re not serious.”

“Yes,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “I bought myself a scarf.”

“Show me!” says Suze, unwinding herself from the floor. “Show-me-show-me-show-me!” She comes over and starts tugging at the strings of the carrier, like a kid. “I want to see your new scarf! Show me!”

This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. Julia, my old flatmate, would have wrinkled her brow and said, “Denny and who?” or, “That’s a lot of money for a scarf.” But Suze completely and utterly understands. If anything, she’s worse than me.

But then, she can afford to be. Although she’s twenty-five, like me, her parents still give her pocket money. It’s called an “allowance” and apparently comes from some family trust — but as far as I can see, it’s pocket money. Her parents also bought her a flat in Fulham as a twenty-first birthday present and she’s been living in it ever since, half working and half dossing about.

She was in PR for a (very) short while, and that’s when I met her, on a press trip to an offshore bank on Guernsey. As a matter of fact, she was working for Brandon Communications. Without being rude — she admits it herself — she was the worst PR girl I’ve ever come across. She completely forgot which bank she was supposed to be promoting, and started talking enthusiastically about one of their competitors. The man from the bank looked crosser and crosser, while all the journalists pissed themselves laughing. Suze got in big trouble over that. In fact, that’s when she decided PR wasn’t the career for her. (The other way of putting it is that Luke Brandon gave her the sack as soon as they got back to London. Another reason not to like him.)

But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours. Actually, Suze had a secret little weep at about two a.m. and said she was hopeless at every job she’d tried and what was she going to do? I said I thought she was far too interesting and creative to be one of those snooty Brandon C girls. Which I wasn’t just saying to be nice, it’s completely true. I gave her a big hug and she cried some more, then we both cheered up and ordered another bottle of wine, and tried on all each other’s clothes. I lent Suze my belt with the square silver buckle, which, come to think of it, she’s never given back. And we kept in touch ever since.

Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the professor supervising her Ph.D. (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I’m sure the rent she charges is too low, but I’ve never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn’t afford it. As market rates go, I’m nearer Elephant and Castle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places?