Confessions of a Shopaholic (5 page)

“What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”

“Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”

“No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”

“Suze!” I wail in dismay.

“Well, what was I
supposed
to say?”

“You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”

“Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”

Am I overdrawn?

I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any idea of my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.

“Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”

There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”

“Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.

“Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.

But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card . . . And now Suze, too.

It’s about . . . let’s think . . . it’s about £6,000.

A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find £6,000? I could save £6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or £12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or . . . or £60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find £60 a week?

Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could . . . win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.

I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’s
completely
unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, £100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat . . .

Actually, better make it £200,000. Or a quarter of a million.

Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five winners will each receive £1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra £300,000 is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)

One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.

And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.

No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.

That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.

I’m quite impressed by this one. It
looks
like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. “One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of £10 million.”

For a moment, I feel faint. What’ll I do with £10 million? Where will I start?

Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bubble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath?)

Then I’ll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at £250,000 each. That’ll leave me . . . 5 million. Plus about £50,000 on the party.

So that’s £4,950,000. Oh, and I need £6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus £300 for Suze. Call it £7,000. So that leaves . . . £4,943,000.

Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.

Oh, and £300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I
must
buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—

“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.

“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 million?

Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.

I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of winning, isn’t it?

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.

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 exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.

“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”

“Danger!” says 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, full of 1930s reproduction jewelry and trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she adds
sotto voce
. “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coatlike garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.

“Of course Becky 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 ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.

“And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”

“So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are 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 traveling on the ninety-three 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. “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 traveled 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 cufflinks, 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-bedroom detached house with staff annex 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 £6.5 million. I’ve only got about . . . 4 million left. Or was it 5? 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.

I shove 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 always, Mum’s there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I’ve never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafétière.

Mum’s terrible. She’s always buying new stuff for the kitchen—and she just gives the old stuff to charity shops. 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 a 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. “About fifty quid.”

This is not strictly true. It was nearer 150. 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 percent off, and you walk around mentally reducing everything. After a while, you get quite practiced.

The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 percent (if it really cost £20, I say it cost £16) and rises up to . . . well, to 90 percent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost £200, and I told Mum they were £20 in the sale. And she believed me.

“So, are you looking for a flat?” she says, glancing over my shoulder at the property pages.

“No,” I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat. Do they know how much flats cost?

“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neighbors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say. “
Or
a starter home.”

Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.

“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”

His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun—as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.

“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”

He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can’t hear him.