Confessions of a Shopaholic

  “Hi,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You’re. . you’re having a sale.”

  “Yes.” The blond girl smiles. “Bit unusual for us.”

  My eyes sweep the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green “50 percent off” signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the distinctive “Denny and George” signature. They’re everywhere. I don’t know where to start. I think I’m having a panic attack.

  “You always liked this one, I think,” says the nice blond girl, taking out a shimmering gray-blue scarf from the pile in front of her.

  Oh God, yes. I remember this one. It’s made of silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue and dotted with iridescent beads. As I stare at it, I can feel little invisible strings, silently tugging me toward it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The girl looks at the label. “Reduced from £340 to £120.” She comes and drapes the scarf around my neck and I gape at my reflection.

  There is no question. I have to have this scarf. I have to have it. It makes my eyes look bigger, it makes my haircut look more expensive, it makes me look like a different person. I’ll be able to wear it with everything. People will refer to me as the Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.

  “I’d snap it up if I were you.” The girl smiles at me. “There’s only one of these left.”

  Involuntarily, I clutch at it.

  “I’ll have it,” I gasp. “I’ll have it.”

  As she’s laying it out on tissue paper, I take out my purse, open it up, and reach for my VISA card in one seamless, automatic action — but my fingers hit bare leather. I stop in surprise and start to rummage through all the pockets of my purse, wondering if I stuffed my card back in somewhere with a receipt or if it’s hidden underneath a business card. . And then, with a sickening thud, I remember. It’s on my desk.

  How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left my VISA card on my desk? What was I thinking?

  The nice blond girl is putting the wrapped scarf into a dark green Denny and George box. My mouth is dry with panic. What am I going to do?

  “How would you like to pay?” she says pleasantly.

  My face flames red and I swallow hard.

  “I’ve just realized I’ve left my credit card at the office,” I stutter.

  “Oh,” says the girl, and her hands pause.

  “Can you hold it for me?” The girl looks dubious.

  “For how long?”

  “Until tomorrow?” I say desperately. Oh God. She’s pulling a face. Doesn’t she understand?

  “I’m afraid not,” she says. “We’re not supposed to reserve sale stock.”

  “Just until later this afternoon, then,” I say quickly. “What time do you close?”

  “Six.”

  Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenaline sweeping through me. Challenge, Rebecca. I’ll go to the press conference, leave as soon as I can, then take a taxi back to the office. I’ll grab my VISA card, tell Philip I left my notebook behind, come here, and buy the scarf.

  “Can you hold it until then?” I say beseechingly. “Please? Please?” The girl relents.

  “OK. I’ll put it behind the counter.”

  “Thanks,” I gasp. I hurry out of the shop and down the road toward Brandon Communications. Please let the press conference be short, I pray. Please don’t let the questions go on too long. Please God, please let me have that scarf.

  As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours, after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one’s going to steal it from me.

  There’s a sign up in the foyer saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world’s-press-on-tenterhooks big, obviously. But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.

  As I enter the room, there’s already a buzz of people milling around, and waitresses circulating with canapés. The journalists are knocking back the champagne as if they’ve never seen it before; the PR girls are looking supercilious and sipping water. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.

  In the far corner of the room I can see Elly Granger from Investor’s Weekly News. She’s been pinned into a corner by two earnest men in suits and is nodding at them, with a glassy look in her eye. Elly’s great. She’s only been on Investor’s Weekly News for six months, and already she’s applied for forty-three other jobs. What she really wants to be is a beauty editor on a magazine, and I think she’d be really good at it. Every time I see her, she’s got a new lipstick on — and she always wears really interesting clothes. Like today, she’s wearing an orange chiffony shirt over a pair of white cotton trousers, espadrilles, and a big wooden necklace, the kind I could never wear in a million years.

  What I really want to be is Fiona Phillips on GMTV. I could really see myself, sitting on that sofa, joshing with Eamonn every morning and interviewing lots of soap stars. Sometimes, when we’re very drunk, we make pacts that if we’re not somewhere more exciting in three months, we’ll both leave our jobs. But then the thought of no money — even for a month — is almost more scary than the thought of writing about depository trust companies for the rest of my life.

  “Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”

  I look up, and almost choke on my champagne. It’s Luke Brandon, head honcho of Brandon Communications, staring straight at me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Staring straight down at me, I should say. He must be well over six feet tall with dark hair and dark eyes and. . wow. Isn’t that suit nice? An expensive suit like that almost makes you want to be a man. It’s inky blue with a faint purple stripe, single-breasted, with proper horn buttons. As I run my eyes over it I find myself wondering if it’s by Oswald Boateng, and whether the jacket’s got a silk lining in some stunning color. If this were someone else, I might ask — but not Luke Brandon, no way.

  I’ve only met him a few times, and I’ve always felt slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he’s got such a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Philip, my boss. He started Brandon Communications from nothing, and now it’s the biggest financial PR company in London. A few months ago he was listed in The Mail as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs of his generation. It said his IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory.

  But it’s not just that. It’s that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he’s talking to me. It’ll probably turn out that the famous Luke Brandon is not only a complete genius but he can read minds, too. He knows that when I’m staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I’m really thinking about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.

  “You know Alicia, don’t you?” Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.

  I don’t know Alicia, as it happens. But I don’t need to. They’re all the same, the girls at Brandon C, as they call it. They’re well dressed, well spoken, are married to bankers, and have zero sense of humor. Alicia falls into the identikit pattern exactly, with her baby-blue suit, silk Hermès scarf, and matching baby-blue shoes, which I’ve seen in Russell and Bromley, and they cost an absolute fortune. (I bet she’s got the bag as well.) She’s also got a suntan, which must mean she’s just come back from Mauritius or somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.

  “Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?”

  “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 p
ress 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 she talking about? 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.”

  She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again.

  “I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

  “Were you expecting it?” Alicia says. “I know you journalists are always ahead of the game.”

  “I. . I certainly saw it coming,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I sound convincing.

  “And now this rumor 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 rumor? Why can’t she leave me alone?

  Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He’s staring at me, his mouth twitching slightly. 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 toward 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 walks 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 toward me.

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

  And of course, now that he says it, I remember that front-page headline.

  “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 toward the back and grab two seats together. We’re in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows, facing a podium and a large screen. 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 dialing 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? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.

  “I’m not sure,” I say discouragingly. “I’m a bit tied up here.”

  “When you’ve finished there. The Social Security Select Committee is releasing its report at five o’clock. Can you go and pick it up? You can 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 and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

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

  Oh God. 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 colorful 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 feel sorry for 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.

  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 cash card, so all I need is another £20, 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 entirel
y new approach to investment.” She looks around the room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly.

  “Exotic Opportunities,” I whisper scornfully to Elly and point to the leaflet. “Exotic prices, more like. Have you seen how much they’re charging?”

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

  Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening to the phone.

  “Foreland Investments are all about adding value,” Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. “Foreland Investments offer you more.”

  “They charge more, you lose more,” I say aloud without thinking, and there’s a laugh around the room. God, how embarrassing. And now Luke Brandon’s lifting his head, too. Quickly I look down and pretend to be writing notes.

  Although to be honest, I don’t know why I even pretend to write notes. It’s not as if we ever put anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments takes out a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month, and they took Philip on some fantastic research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year — so we’re never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are. Like that’s really any help to our readers.

  As Alicia carries on speaking, I lean toward Elly.

  “So, listen,” I whisper. “Can I borrow your credit card?”

  “All used up,” hisses Elly apologetically. “I’m up to my limit. Why do you think I’m living off LVs?”

  “But I need money!” I whisper. “I’m desperate! I need twenty quid!”

  I’ve spoken more loudly than I intended and Alicia stops speaking.

  “Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments, Rebecca,” says Alicia, and another titter goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawk at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They’re fellow journalists, for God’s sake. They should be on my side. National Union of Journalists solidarity and all that.