Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

  “This isn’t a public library, you know,” he says.

  “I’m just browsing,” I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man’s finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut. Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue Biro line.

  “Browsing is one thing,” says the man sternly. “Defacing shop stock is another.”

  “It was an accident!” I say. “You startled me!”

  “Hmm,” says the man, and gives me a hard stare. “Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?”

  There’s a pause—then, rather shamefacedly, I say, “No.”

  “I see,” says the man, tightening his lips. “Well, I’m afraid this matter will have to go to the manager. Obviously, we can’t sell this book now, so it’s our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred …”

  Is he serious? Isn’t he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn’t matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can’t buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don’t want to go and see the manager, either.

  “Lynn?” the man’s calling to an assistant at the pen counter. “Could you page Glenys for me, please?”

  He really is serious. He’s looking all pleased with himself, as though he’s caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making Biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. I’ll have a criminal record. I won’t ever be able to go to America.

  “Look, I’ll buy it, okay?” I say breathlessly. “I’ll buy the bloody book.” I wrench it from the man’s grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else.

  Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and she calls triumphantly, “I took your advice! I’ve got her one of those traveling books. I think she’ll really like it!”

  “Oh good,” I reply, handing my recipe book over to be scanned.

  “It’s called The Rough Guide to India,” says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, yes, but—”

  “That’s £24.99, please,” says the girl at my till.

  What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn’t I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn. Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over. Shopping is one thing, being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty-five quid.

  On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that’s quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to … fifty pence! And now I’ll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I’ve got to think of this book as an investment.

  I don’t want to boast, but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office. (And some coffee beans and an electric grinder.) And some flowers and champagne for Suze’s birthday.

  But I’m allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. “Do not stop giving your friends gifts,” he says. “They need not be extravagant—use your creativity and try making them yourself.”

  So I’ve bought Suze a half bottle of champagne instead of a whole one—and instead of buying expensive croissants from the patisserie, I’m going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.

  In the evening we’re going out to Terrazza for supper with Suze’s cousins Fenella and Tarquin—and, to be honest, it might be quite an expensive evening. But that’s OK, because it counts as breaking bread with friends. (Except the bread at Terrazza is sun-dried tomato focaccia and costs £4.50 a basket.)

  Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o’clock, and as soon as she sees them, Suze starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I’m not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, to be honest with you, I think they’re a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They’re both very skinny, but in a pale, bony way, and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn’t look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this family language which no one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches “witchies.” And a drink is a “titchy” (except if it’s water, which is “Ho”). Take it from me, it gets irritating after a while.

  But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can’t see that they’re a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she’s with them.

  Still, there’s nothing I can do about it—they’re here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I’m pretty pleased with what I see. I’m wearing a really simple black top and black trousers—and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God, that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.

  I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.

  “Hi, Bex!” says Suze, looking up with bright eyes. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They’re not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella’s wearing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin’s double-breasted suit looks as if it were tailored during the First World War.

  “Hi!” I say, and kiss each of them politely.

  “Oh, wow!” cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” She’s looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can’t say I’m impressed. For a start it’s really dingy—all sludgy greens and browns—and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn’t it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden by a girl in one of those lovely Pride and Prejudice dresses.

  “Happy Bad Day!” Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That’s another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since … Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)

  “It’s absolutely gorgeous!” I say enthusiastically. “Absolutely beautiful!”

  “It is, isn’t it?” says Tarquin earnestly. “Just look at those colors.” “Mmm, lovely,” I say, nodding.

  “And the brushwork. It’s exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.”

  “It’s a really wonderful picture,” I say. “Makes you want to just … gallop off over the downs!”

  What is this drivel I’m coming out with? Why can’t I just be honest and say I don’t like it?

  “Do you ride?” says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.

  I’ve ridden once. On my cousin’s horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I’m not going to admit that to Mr. Horse of the Year.

  “I used to,” I say, and give a modest little smile. “Not very well.”

  “I’m sure you’d get back into it,” says Tarquin, gazing at me. “Have you ever hunted?”

  Hunted? Little furry foxes? Is he joking?

  “Hey,” says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. “Shall we have a titchy before we go?”

  “Absolutely!” I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. “Good idea.”

  “Oooh, yes,” says Fenella. “Have you got any champagne?”

  “Should have,” says Suze, and goes i
nto the kitchen. At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, may I speak to Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange woman’s voice.

  “Yes,” I say idly. I’m listening to Suze opening and shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen and wondering if we have actually got any champagne, apart from the dregs of the half bottle we drank for breakfast … “Speaking.”

  “Ms. Bloomwood, this is Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank,” says the voice, and I freeze.

  Shit. It’s the bank. Oh God, they sent me that letter, didn’t they, and I never did anything about it.

  What am I going to say? Quick, what am I going to say?

  “Ms. Bloomwood?” says Erica Parnell.

  OK, what I’ll say is, I’m fully aware that my overdraft is slightly larger than it should be, and I’m planning to take remedial action within the next few days. Yes, that sounds good. “Remedial action” sounds very good. OK—go.

  Firmly I tell myself not to panic—these people are human—and take a big breath. And then, in one seamless, unplanned movement, my hand puts down the receiver.

  I stare at the silent phone for a few seconds, not quite able to believe what I’ve just done. What did I do that for? Erica Parnell knew it was me, didn’t she? Any minute, she’ll ring back. She’s probably pressing redial now, and she’ll be really angry …

  Quickly I take the phone off the hook and hide it under a cushion. Now she can’t get me. I’m safe.

  “Who was that?” says Suze, coming into the room.

  “No one,” I say, and force a bright smile. I don’t want to spoil Suze’s birthday with my stupid problems. “Just a wrong … Listen, let’s not have drinks here. Let’s go out!”

  “Oh,” says Suze. “OK!”

  “Much more fun,” I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. “We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.”

  What I’ll do in future, I’m thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.

  “What’s going on?” says Fenella, appearing at the door.

  “Nothing!” I hear myself say. “We’re going out for a titchy and then on to sups.”

  Oh, I don’t believe it. I’m turning into one of them.

  As we arrive at Terrazza, I’m feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She’ll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we’re two civilized adults, aren’t we? Adults just don’t do things like that.

  And if I ever meet her, which I hope to God I never do, I’ll just keep very cool and say, “It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn’t it?” Or even better, I’ll accuse her of putting the phone down on me. (In a jokey way, of course.)

  Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn’t been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I’ve managed it. I’m keeping to it so well! On Saturday I’m going to monitor my spending pattern again, and I’m sure it’ll have gone down by at least 70 percent.

  “What shall we have to drink?” says Suze. “Tarquin, you choose.”

  “Oh, look!” shrieks Fenella. “There’s Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.” She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I’ve no idea.

  “Suze!” cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading toward our table, arms stretched out for a hug. “And Tarkie!”

  “Hello, Tory,” says Tarquin, getting to his feet. “How’s Mungo?”

  “He’s over there!” says Tory. “You must come and say hello!”

  How is it that Fenella and Tarquin spend most of their time in the middle of Perthshire, but the minute they set foot in London, they’re besieged by long-lost friends?

  “Eddie says hi,” announces Fenella, returning to the table. “Tory! How are you? How’s Mungo?”

  “Oh, he’s fine,” says Tory. “But listen, have you heard? Caspar’s back in town!”

  “No!” everyone exclaims, and I’m almost tempted to join in. No one has bothered to introduce me to Tory, but that’s the way it goes. You join the gang by osmosis. One minute you’re a complete stranger, the next you’re shrieking away with the rest of them, going “Did you hear about Venetia and Sebastian?”

  “Look, we must order,” says Suze. “We’ll come and say hello in a minute, Tory.”

  “Okay, ciao,” says Tory, and she sashays off.

  “Suze!” cries another voice, and a girl in a little black dress comes rushing up. “And Fenny!”

  “Milla!” they both cry. “How are you? How’s Benjy?”

  Oh God, it just doesn’t stop. Here I am, staring at the menu, pretending to be really interested in the starters but really feeling like some utter loser that no one wants to talk to. It’s not fair. I want to table-hop, too. I want to bump into old friends I’ve known since babyhood. (Although to be honest, the only person I’ve known that long is Tom from next door, and he’ll be in his limed oak kitchen in Reigate.)

  But just in case, I lower my menu and gaze hopefully around the restaurant. Please, God, just once, let there be someone I recognize. It doesn’t have to be anyone I like, or even know that well—just someone I can rush up to and go mwah mwah and shriek, “We must do lunch!” Anyone’ll do. Anyone at all …

  And then, with a disbelieving thrill, I spot a familiar face, a few tables away! It’s Luke Brandon, sitting at a table with a smartly dressed older man and woman.

  Well, he’s not exactly an old friend—but I know him, don’t I? And I so want to table-hop like the others.

  “Oh look, there’s Luke!” I shriek (quietly, so he doesn’t hear). “I simply must go and say hello!”

  As the others look at me in surprise, I toss my hair back, leap to my feet, and hurry off, full of a sudden exhilaration. I can do it, too! I’m table-hopping at Terrazza. I’m an It-girl!

  It’s only when I get within a few feet of his table that I slow down and wonder what I’m actually going to say to him.

  Well … I’ll just be polite. Say hello and—ah, genius! I can thank him again for his kind loan of twenty quid.

  Shit, I did pay him back, didn’t I?

  Yes. Yes, I sent him that nice recycled card with poppies on it and a check. That’s right. Now don’t panic, just be cool and It.

  “Hi!” I say as soon as I get within earshot of his table, but the hubbub around us is so loud, he doesn’t hear me. No wonder all Fenella’s friends have got such screechy voices. You need about sixty-five decibels, just to be heard. “Hi!” I try again, louder, but still no response. Luke is talking earnestly to the older man, and the woman’s listening intently. None of them even glances up.

  This is getting a bit embarrassing. I’m standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn’t he leap ing up, shrieking “Have you heard about Foreland Investments?” It’s not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pretend I was heading toward the Ladies’?

  A waiter barges past me with a tray, and I’m pushed helplessly forward, toward Luke’s table—and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn’t even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I’ve got to go through with it now.

  “Hi, Luke!” I say brightly. “I just thought I’d say … hello!”

  “Well, hello,” Luke says eventually. “Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca—my parents.”

  Oh God. What have I done? I’ve table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.

  “Hello,” I say, and give a feebl
e smile. “Well, I won’t keep you from …”

  “So how do you know Luke?” inquires Mrs. Brandon.

  “Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,” says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Gosh, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)

  I grin confidently at Mr. Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I’m a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?

  “Financial journalist, eh?” grunts Mr. Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. “So what do you think of the chancellor’s announcement?”

  I’m never going to table-hop again. Never.

  “Well,” I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.

  “Dad, I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t want to talk shop,” says Luke, his lips twitching slightly.

  “Quite right!” says Mrs. Brandon, and smiles at me. “That’s a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?”

  “Yes, it is!” I say brightly, full of relief. “I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking so …

  Oh fuck. How can I be so stupid?

  “In the sale … for my aunt,” I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. “I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she … died.”

  There’s a shocked silence and I look down. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said.

  “Oh dear,” says Mr. Brandon gruffly.

  “Aunt Ermintrude died?” says Luke in a strange voice.

  “Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to look up. “It was terribly sad.”

  “How awful!” says Mrs. Brandon sympathetically.

  “She was in hospital, wasn’t she?” says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. “What was wrong with her?”

  For an instant I’m silenced.

  “It was … her leg,” I hear myself say.