Sophie Kinsella: Confessions of a Shopaholic

“Bex, open it up!” Suze is begging. “Let me see!” She’s grabbing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. I hate shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)

Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.

“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”

For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re communing with a higher being. The god of shopping.

Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.

“You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.

“I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not seeing him.”

“How come?”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.

“Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”

“I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit. . awkward.”

“Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?

“I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”

I take a deep breath and turn to face her.

“He didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t fancy you?”

“No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”

“You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror — as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.

“I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of. . pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”

The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully suppressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.

Well, what was I supposed to think? There he was, there I was — and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.

Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face to get me off him — although he was very apologetic about it afterward.

Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gurgles of laughter.

“He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”

“Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”

“And you said, not bloody likely!”

“Sort of.” I look away.

In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what I thought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”

Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.

“But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual compatibility?”

“Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”

Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look at his. .”

“No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”

“But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.

“Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”

“So what are you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”

This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire. The Country. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.

“No, ‘s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”

“Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”

“I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”

Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs £15,000 a year to run. Fifteen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”

“Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”

“Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”

“Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”

I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.

“Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”

“Erica Parsnip?” Sometimes I think Suze’s mind has been expanded just a little too often.

“Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.”

I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.

“She called here? She called this number?”

“Yes. This afternoon.”

“Oh shit.” My heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”

“What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”

“Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”

“No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”

“Suze!” I wail in dismay.

“Well, what was I supposed to say?”

“You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”

“Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”

Am I overdrawn?

I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any idea of my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.

“Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”

There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”

“Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.