Sophie Kinsella - The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'It's limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,' she says proudly. 'It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.'

For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.

'Lovely,' I say. 'And two bedrooms!'

Why can't I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?

'He wanted two bedrooms,' says Janice. 'After all, you never know, do you?' She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Oh God. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She's picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.

I should say something. I should say, 'Janice, I don't fancy Tom. He's too tall and his breath smells.' But how on earth can I?

'Well, do give him my love,' I hear myself saying instead.

'I certainly will,' she says, and pauses. 'Does he have your London number?'

Aarrgh!

'I think so,' I lie, smiling brightly. 'And he can always get me here if he wants.' Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. 'She was asking all about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!'

Life would le a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom. Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.

Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.

'Thought you might cast your eye over this,' he says. 'We've had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we're thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?'

I don't know. What's he talking about, anyway?

Some kind of savings plan? I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times.

'Yes,' I say vaguely. 'Well, I should think that's quite a good idea.'

'The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,' says Martin. 'There's a guaranteed sum, too.'

'And they'll send us a carriage clock,' chimes in Janice. 'Swiss made.'

'Mrm,' I say, studying the letterhead intently.

Flagstaff Life, I'm thinking. I'm sure I've heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They're the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from The Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it.

One of the best.

'D'you rate them as a company?' says Martin.

'Absolutely,' I say. 'They're very well regarded among the profession.'

'Well then,' says Martin, looking pleased. 'I think we should take their advice. Go for growth.'

'I would think the more growth, you have, the better," I say in my most professional-sounding voice. 'But that's just one view.'

'Oh well,' says Martin, and glances at Janice. 'If Becky thinks it's a good idea…'

'Well, I really wouldn't listen to me!' I say hurriedly.

'Listen to her!' says Martin with a little chuckle. 'The financial expert Herself.'

'You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,' puts in Janice. 'Not that he's got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything… But he says your articles are very good! He says-'

'How nice!' I cut in. 'Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!'

I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I'd said goodbye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I'll go mad.

By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I've forgotten all about them. We've had a nice supper – chicken provenale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken provenale comes from Marks and Spencer because I've bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still pretended she'd made it from scratch, to her own recipe.

I don't know why she bothers. It isn't like anyone would care – especially when it's just me and Dad.

And I mean, it's pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals – and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she's bought a ready-made meal, not even when it's a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a perfectly straight face, 'Delicious, my love.' And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.

But tonight it's not foil pie, it's chicken provenale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look home-made – except no-one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we've eaten it and we've drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there's an apple crumble in the oven – and I've suggested, casually, that we all go and watch telly.

Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery programme has already started. In a matter of minutes, it's all going to happen. Oh God, I cannot wait.

Luckily, my parents aren't the sort who want to make conversation about politics or talk about books. We've already caught up with all the family news, and I've told them how my work's going, and they've told me about their holiday in Corsica – so by now, we're grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.

So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly.

And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany from EastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach's getting tighter and tighter, and my heart's going thump-thump-thump. In a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I'm going to be a millionaire.

I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I'll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn't tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn't tell anyone at all.

This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I can afford so many designer clothes I'd just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could transform all my friends' lives anonymously, like a good angel. No-one would ever know. This is perfect!

I'm just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.

'Question to Number Three.'

What?

'My favourite animal is the flamingo because it's pink, fluffy, and has long legs.' The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What's going on? Why are we watching Blind Date?

'Now, this show used to be fun,' says Mum. 'But it's gone downhill.'

'You call this rubbish fun?' retorts my dad incredulously.

'Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to…'

'I didn't say it was fun now. I said-'

'Dad!' I say, trying not to sound too panicky. 'Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?'

Blind Date disappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.

'What the police failed to appreciate,' he says in a nasal voice, 'is that the witnesses were not sufficiently-'