Sophie Kinsella: The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'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 happened? 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.' sure I sound convincing.

'And now this rumour 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 rumour? Oh God, why can't she leave me alone?

Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He's staring at me, with a strange expression on his face. 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 towards 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 hurries 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 towards me.

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

And of course, now he says it, I remember hearing something about it on the news this morning.

'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 towards the back and grab two seats together. 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 dialling 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? Who does he think I am? If he somebody to buy him paracetamol, he should get secretary.

'I'm not sure,' I say discouragingly. 'I'm a bit tied here.'

'When you've finished there. The Social Security Select Committee are releasing their report at five o'clock. Can you go and pick it up? You cab 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.

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

Oh God. I can't think of any way to get out of this. 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 colourful 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 laugh at 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. Is it possible to gazump a Denny and George scarf?

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 cashpoint card, so all I need is another twenty, 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.

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

Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening the phone.

'Foreland Investments are all about adding value,' Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. 'Foreland Invest' merits offer you more.'

'They charge more, you lose more,' I say aloud without thinking, and there's a laugh around the room.