Sophie Kinsella - The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.

Brompton's Store

CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS

1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH

Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

2 March 2000

Dear Ms Bloomwood

Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Brompton Gilt Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.

Your outstanding bill is currently ?235.76. The minimum payment is ?43.00. You may pay by cash, cheque or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.

Yours sincerely

John Hunter

Customer Accounts Manager

Brompton's Store

1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH

Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

2 March 2000

Dear Ms Bloomwood

There's never been a better time to spend!

For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over?Ј50 made with the Brompton Gilt Card* – so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders' Gifts.

Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:

An Italian leather bag

1,000 points

A case of pink champagne

2,000 points

Two flights to Paris **

5,000 points

(Your current level is: 35 points)

And remember,' during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ?5 spent. We look forward to welcoming you in store soon to take advantage of this unique offer.

Yours sincerely

Adrian Smith

Customer Services Manager

*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand and hairdresser

**certain restrictions apply – see enclosed leaflet

When I arrive at my parents' house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.

'All I'm saying is that they should set a good example!' Mum is saying.

'And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it? You think that would solve the problem.'

'Danger!' say Mum derisively. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?'

'Hi, Mum,' I say. 'Hi Dad.'

'Becky agrees with me. Don't you, darling?' says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times. 'Lovely cardigan,' she adds sotto voc. 'Look at that embroidery!'

'Of course she doesn't agree with you!' retorts my dad. 'It's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard.'

'No it's not!' says Mum indignantly. 'Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the Royal Family to travel by public transport, don't you, darling?'

'Well…' I say cautiously. 'I hadn't really…'

'You think the Queen should travel to official engagements on the 93 bus?' scoffs Dad.

'And why not? Maybe then the 93 bus would become more efficient!'

'So,' I say, sitting down next to Mum. 'How things?'

'You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?' says Mum, as if she hasn't heard me. 'If more people don't start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.'

My dad shakes his head.

'And you think the Queen travelling on the 93 bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she'd be able to do far fewer engagements…'

'I didn't mean the Queen, necessarily,' retorts Mum, and pauses for a second. 'But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube every so often, couldn't she? These people need to learn about real life.'

The last time my mum travelled on the tube was about 1983.

'Shall I make some coffee?' I say brightly. 'If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,' says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. 'It's all propaganda.'

'Propaganda?' exclaims my mum in outrage.

'Right,' I say hurriedly. 'Well, I'll go and put the kettle on.'

I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I've already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They'll just go round and round in circles and agree it's all the fault of Tony Blair.

Anyway, I've got more important things to think about. I'm trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the Lottery. I can't leave him out, of course – but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside.

(Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing).

Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I'm going to win the Lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can't wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I'll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!

The newspaper's open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven bedroomed detached house with staff annexe and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock.

Six point five million pounds. That's how much they're asking. Six and a half million.

I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven't got anything like six point five million pounds. I've only got about… four million left. Or was it five? Whatever it is, it's not enough. I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want – but already I'm feeling poor and inadequate.

Crossly, I slime the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at ?100 each. That's more like it. When I've won the Lottery I'll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I'll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown…

'So, how's the world of finance?' Mum's voice interrupts me and I look up. She's bustling into the kitchen, still holding her Past Times catalogue. 'Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!'

'I was going to,' I say, and make a half-move from my chair. But, as I predicted, Mum's there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I've never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafe ire.

Mum's terrible. She's always buying new stuff for the kitchen – and she just gives the old stuff to Oxfam. New kettles, new toasters… We've already had three new rubbish bins this year – dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what waste of money.

'That's a nice skirt!' she says, looking at me as though for the first time. 'Where's that from?'

'DKNY,' I mumble back.

'Very pretty,' she says. 'Was it expensive?'

'Not really,' I say without pausing. 'About fifty quid.'

This is not strictly true. It was nearer a hundred and fifty. But there's no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she'd have a coronary. Or, in fact, she'd tell my dad first – and then they'd both have coronaries, and I'd be an orphan.

So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real Prices and Mum Prices. It's a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 per cent off, and you walk around mentally reducing everything, After a while, you get quite practised.