Sophie Kinsella: The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'I know,' comes Fran's wobbly voice. 'I know you're right. But it's not easy.'

'I know' I say sympathetically. I know it's not. Just hang in there, Fran.'

'Rebecca,' says Emma. 'Would you say this a common problem?'

'I'm afraid it is,' I reply, turning back to her. 'Sadly, a lot of people out there simply don't put financial security first.'

'Oh dear,' says Emma, shaking her head sorrowfully.

'That's not good.'

'But it's never too late,' I continue. 'As soon as they turn that corner, and wake up to their responsibilities, their lives are transformed.'

I make a confident sweeping gesture with my arm, and as I do so, my gaze takes in the whole studio. And … Oh my God it's him.

I'm not hallucinating.

It's really him. Standing at the corner of the set, wearing a security badge and sipping something in a polystyrene cup as though he belongs here. Derek Smeath is standing here in the Morning Coffee studios, ten yards away fromme.

Derek Smeath of Endwich Bank.

But it… it can't be.

But it is. It's Derek Smeath. I don't understand.

What's he doing here?

Oh God, and now he's staring straight at me.

My heart begins to pound, and I swallow hard, trying to keep control of myself.

'Rebecca?' Emma says, and I force myself to turn my attention back to the show. I can't even remember what we're talking about. 'So you think Fran should go and see her bank manager?'

'I… ahm…, that's right,' I say, my cheeks suddenly burning red.

What am I going to do? He's staring right at me. I can't escape.

'So,' says Emma. 'You think that once Fran faces up to reality, she'll be able to get her life in order.'

'That's right,' I say like an automaton, and force myself to smile brightly at Emma. But underneath, my confident happiness is evaporating. Derek Smeath is here. I can't block him out of my vision; I can't forget about him.

And now all the parts of my life I'd so carefully buried at the back of my mind are starting to worm their way out again. I don't want to remember any of them – but I've got no choice. Here they come, wriggling into my mind, one piece of horrible reality after another.

'Well,' says Rory. 'Let's all hope Fran takes Rebecca's very good advice.'

My row with Suze. My disastrous date with Tarquin. A nasty cold feeling starts trickling down my spine.

'Now our next caller,' says Emma, 'is John from Luton. John?'

'Hi, Rebecca,' 'comes a voice down the line. 'Thing is, I was given an insurance policy when I was a child, but I've lost all the papers. And now I'd like to get hold of the dosh, know what I mean?'

My VISA card, cancelled. My Octagon card, confiscated in front of that whole crowd. God, that was humiliating.

OK, stop it. Concentrate. Concentrate.

'This is actually quite a common problem,' I hear myself saying. 'Do you remember which company the policy was with?'

'No,' says John. 'Not a clue.'

My bank account. Thousands of pounds of debt.

Derek Smeath.

Oh God. I feel sick. I want to run and hide somewhere.

'Well, you still should be able to trace it,' I continue, forcing myself to keep smiling. 'You could start with an agency which specializes in this sort of thing. I can check this for you, but I think their name is…'

My whole terrible, disorganized life. It's all there, isn't it? Waiting for me, like a great big spider. Just waiting to pounce, as soon as this phone-in ends.

'We're out of time, I'm afraid,' says Emma, as I come to an end. 'Many thanks to our financial expert, Rebecca Bloomwood, and I'm sure we'll all be heeding her wise words. Coming up after the break, the results of our makeover in Newcastle and Heaven Sent 7, live in the studio.'

There's a frozen pause – then everyone relaxes.

'Right,' says Emma, consulting her piece of paper. 'Where are we next?'

'Good work, Rebecca,' says Rory cheerfully. 'Excellent stuff.'

'Oh Zelda!' says Emma, leaping up. 'Could I have a quick word? That was fab, Rebecca,' she adds. 'Really fab.'

Suddenly they're both gone. And I'm left alone on the set, exposed and vulnerable, desperately avoiding Derek Smeath's eye and thinking as quickly as I can. Maybe I could slip out at the back.

Or maybe I could stick it out here on the sofa. Just sit here until he gets bored and leaves. I mean, he won't dare to come onto the actual set, will he?

Maybe I could pretend to be someone else. God, yes. I mean, with all this makeup on, I practically look like someone else, anyway.

Anyway – it suddenly occurs to me.– who’s to say he's even noticed me? He's probably here for some completely other reason. He's probably going to appear on the show or something. Exactly. Nothing to do with me. So I'll just get up and walk briskly past, and it'll all be fine.

'Excuse me, love,' says a man in jeans, coming onto the set. 'I need to shift this sofa along.'

'Oh, right,' I say, leaping up. As I do, I mistakenly catch the eye of Derek Smeath again. He's still looking right at me. He's waiting for me.

Oh God.

OK, it'll be fine – just keep walking. Just keep walking and pretend you don't recognize him.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, I stand up, take a deep breath and walk briskly across the set. My pace doesn't falter; my expression doesn't waver. My eyes are fixed firmly on the double doors, and I'm doing well. Just a few more steps now. Just a few more…

'Miss Bloomwood.' His voice hits the back of my head like a bullet and for an instant I consider ignoring it. Possibly even diving for the doors. But Zelda and Emma are standing nearby. They'll have heard him calling my name. I can't get out of it.

So I turn round, and give what I think is a very convincing double-take, as though recognizing him for the first time.

'Oh, hello, it's you!' I say brightly. 'What a surprise. How are you?'

A technician gestures to us to keep our voices down, and Derek Smeath firmly ushers me out of the studio, into a foyer area. He turns to me and I give him a confident smile. Perhaps we can keep it all at a social level.

'Miss Bloomwood-'

'Lovely weather we're having,' I say. 'Don't you think?'

'Miss Bloomwood, our meeting,' says Derek Smeath tightly.

Oh God. I was hoping he might have forgotten about that.

'Our meeting,' I echo thoughtfully. 'Erm…' Then I have a sudden inspiration. 'That's right. It's tomorrow, isn't it? I'm really looking forward to it.'

Derek Smeath looks as though he's going to explode.

'It is not tomorrow! It was on Monday morning. And you failed to turn up!'

'Oh,' I say. 'Oh, that meeting. Yes, sorry about that. I meant to come, honestly. It's just… It's just that…'

But I can't think of a single good excuse. I've used them all up. So I tail off feebly, and bite my lip, feeling like a naughty child.

'Miss Bloomwood,' says Derek Smeath wearily. 'Miss Bloomwood…' He rubs his face with his hand, then looks up. 'Do you know quite how long I have been writing letters to you? Do you know how long I've been trying to get you into the bank for a meeting?'

'Ahm… I'm not quite-'

'Six months,' says Derek Smeath, and pauses. 'Six long months of excuses and prevarication. Now, I'd just like you to think about what that means for me. It means endless letters. Numerous phone calls. Hours of time and effort on my part and that of my assistant, Erica. Resources which, quite frankly, could be better spent elsewhere.' He gestures sharply with his polystyrene cup and some coffee slops out of the side onto the floor. 'Then finally I pin you down to a cast-iron appointment. Finally I think you're taking your situation seriously. And you don't turn up. You disappear completely. I telephone your home to find out where you are – and get accused most unpleasantly of being some kind of stalker!'