Confessions of a Shopaholic (14 page)

Oh, this is fantastic! All the Sacrum people look like they want to die.

“A press release on the subject of Safe Prospects was issued at the time,” says Maria and smiles icily at Eric. “However, this press conference is restricted to the subject of the new Pension Series. If you could just wait until the presentation is over . . .”

“Don’t worry,” says Eric Foreman comfortably. “I won’t be staying to hear the bullshit. I reckon I’ve got everything I need already.” He stands up and grins at me. “Good to meet you, Rebecca,” he says quietly. “And thanks for your expertise.” He extends his hand and I shake it, without quite knowing what I’m doing. And then, as everyone is turning in their seats and whispering, he makes his way along the row and out of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Maria Freeman, two bright spots burning on her cheeks. “Due to this . . . disturbance, we will have a short break before we resume. Please help yourself to tea and coffee. Thank you.” She turns off the microphone, climbs down from the podium, and hurries over to the huddle of Sacrum Asset Management personnel.

“You should
never
have let him in!” I hear one of them saying.

“I didn’t know who he was!” replies Maria defensively. “He said he was a stringer for
The Wall Street Journal
!”

Well, this is more like it! I haven’t seen so much excitement since Alan Derring from the
Daily Investor
stood up at a Provident Assurance press conference and told everyone he was becoming a woman and wanted us all to call him Andrea.

I head toward the back to get another cup of coffee, and find Elly standing by the coffee table. Excellent. I haven’t seen Elly for ages.

“Hi,” she grins. “I like your new friend. Very entertaining.”

“I know!” I say delightedly. “Isn’t he cool?” I reach for a posh chocolate biscuit wrapped in gold foil, and give my cup to the waitress to be refilled. Then I take another couple of biscuits and pop them in my bag. (No point wasting them.)

Around us there is an excited buzz of conversation; the Sacrum people are still clustered at the front. This is great. We’ll be able to natter for hours.

“So listen,” I say to Elly. “Have you applied for any jobs recently?” I take a sip of coffee. “Because I saw one for
New Woman
the other day in the
Media Guardian
, and I meant to ring you. It said it was essential to have experience on a consumer title, but I thought you could say—”

“Becky,” interrupts Elly in an odd voice, “you know which job I’ve been going for.”

“What?” I stare at her. “Not that fund manager job. But that wasn’t serious. That was just a bargaining tool.”

“I took it,” she says, and I gaze at her in shock.

Suddenly a voice comes from the podium, and we both look up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maria is saying. “If you would like to resume your seats . . .”

I’m sorry, but I can’t go and sit back down there. I
have
to hear about this.

“Come on,” I say quickly to Elly. “We don’t need to stay. We’ve got our press packs. Let’s go and have lunch.”

There’s a pause—and for an awful moment I think she’s going to say no, she
wants
to stay and hear about personal pensions. But then she grins and takes my arm—and to the obvious dismay of the girl at the door, we waltz out of the room.

There’s a Café Rouge around the corner, and we go straight in and order a bottle of white wine. I’m still in slight shock, to tell you the truth. Elly Granger is going to become a Wetherby’s fund manager. She’s deserting me. I won’t have anyone to play with anymore.

And how
can
she? She wanted to be beauty editor on
Marie-Claire
, for God’s sake!

“So, what decided you?” I say cautiously as our wine arrives.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, and sighs. “I just kept thinking, where am I going? You know, I keep applying for all these glam jobs in journalism and never even getting an interview . . .”

“You would have got one eventually,” I say robustly. “I know you would.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. And in the meantime, I’m writing about all this boring financial stuff—and I suddenly thought, why not just sod it and
do
boring financial stuff? At least I’ll have a proper career.”

“You were in a proper career!”

“No I wasn’t, I was hopeless! I was paddling around with no aim, no game plan, no prospects . . .” Elly breaks off as she sees my face. “I mean, I was quite different from you,” she adds hurriedly. “You’re much more sorted out than I was.”

Sorted out? Is she joking?

“So when do you start?” I say, to change the subject—because to be honest, I feel a bit thrown by all this. I don’t have a game plan, I don’t have prospects. Maybe I’m hopeless, too. Maybe I should rethink my career. Oh God, this is depressing.

“Next week,” says Elly, and takes a swig of wine. “I’m going to be based at the Silk Street office.”

“Oh right,” I say miserably.

“And I’ve had to buy loads of new clothes,” she adds, and pulls a little face. “They’re all really smart at Wetherby’s.”

New clothes?
New clothes
? Right, now I really am jealous.

“I went into Karen Millen and practically bought it out,” she says, eating a marinated olive. “Spent about a thousand quid.”

“Blimey,” I say, feeling slightly awe-stricken. “A thousand quid, all at once?”

“Well, I had to,” she says apologetically. “And anyway, I’ll be earning more now.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “Lots more.”

“Like . . . how much?” I ask, feeling tweaks of curiosity.

“I’m starting off on forty grand,” she says, and gives a careless shrug. “After that, who knows? What they said is . . .”

And she starts talking about career structures and ladders and bonuses. But I can’t hear a word, I’m too shell-shocked.

Forty grand?

Forty grand
? But I only earn—

Actually, should I be telling you how much I earn? Isn’t it one of those things like religion, you’re not supposed to mention in polite company? Or maybe we’re all allowed to talk about money these days. Suze would know.

Oh well, sod it. You know everything else, don’t you? The truth is, I earn £21,000. And I thought that was a lot! I remember really well, when I moved jobs, I jumped from £18,000 to £21,000, and I thought I’d made the big time. I was so excited about it, I used to write endless lists of what I would buy with all that extra money.

But now it sounds like nothing. I should be earning forty grand, like Elly, and buying all my clothes at Karen Millen. Oh, it’s not fair. My life’s a complete disaster.

As I’m walking back to the office, I feel pretty morose. Maybe I should give up journalism and become a fund manager, too. Or a merchant banker. They earn a pretty good whack, don’t they? Maybe I could join Goldman Sachs or somewhere. They earn about a million a year, don’t they? God, that would be good. I wonder how you get a job like that.

But on the other hand . . . do I really want to be a banker? I wouldn’t mind the clothes-from-Karen-Millen part of it. In fact, I think I’d do that really well. But I’m not so sure about the rest. The getting-up-early-and-working-hideously-hard part. Not that I’m lazy or anything—but I quite like the fact that I can go and spend the afternoon at Image Store, or flick through the papers pretending to be doing research, and no one gives me a hard time. It doesn’t sound as if Elly will be doing much of that in her new job. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything remotely fun or creative about it. And aren’t bankers rather humorless? Their press conferences certainly are—so imagine
working
with them. It all sounds quite scary.

Hmm. If only there were some way that I could get all the nice clothes—but not have to do the dreary work. One but not the other. If only there were a way . . . My eyes are automatically flicking into all the shop windows as I pass, checking out the displays—and suddenly I stop in my tracks.

This is a sign from God. It has to be.

I’m standing outside Ally Smith—which has some gorgeous full-length coats in the window—and there’s a handwritten sign in the glass pane of the door. “Wanted. Saturday sales assistants. Inquire within.”

I almost feel faint as I stare at the sign. It’s as though lightning has struck, or something. Why on
earth
haven’t I thought of this before? It’s pure genius. I’ll get a Saturday job! I’ll work in a clothes shop! That way, I’ll make loads of extra money
and
I’ll get a discount on all the clothes! And let’s face it, working in a shop has got to be more fun than becoming a fund manager, hasn’t it? I can choose all my own clothes as I help the customers. I’ll actually be getting
paid
to go shopping!

This is bloody fantastic, I think, striding into the shop with a friendly smile on my face. I
knew
something good was going to happen today. I just had a feeling about it.

Half an hour later, I come out with an even bigger smile on my face. I’ve got a job! I’ve got a Saturday job! I’m going to work from eight-thirty to five-thirty every Saturday, and get £4.80 an hour, and 10 percent off all the clothes! And after three months, it goes up to 20 percent! All my money troubles are over.

Thank God it was a quiet afternoon. They let me fill in the application form on the spot, and Danielle, the manager, gave me an interview straight away. At first, she looked a bit dubious—especially when I said I had a full-time job as a financial journalist and was doing this to get extra money and clothes. “It’ll be hard work,” she kept saying. “You do realize that? It’ll be very hard work.” But I think what changed her mind was when we started talking about the stock. I love Ally Smith—so of course I knew the price of every single item in the shop and whether they have anything similar in Jigsaw or French Connection. Eventually Danielle gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you obviously like clothes.” And then she gave me the job! I can’t wait. I start this Saturday. Isn’t it great?

As I arrive back at the office I feel exhilarated with my success. I look around—and suddenly this mundane office life seems far too boring and limited for a creative spirit like mine. I don’t belong here, among fusty piles of press releases and grimly tapping computers. I belong out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Ally Smith. Maybe I’ll go into retail full time, I think, as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe I’ll start my own chain of designer stores! I’ll be one of those people featured in articles about incredibly successful entrepreneurs. “Becky Bloomwood was working as a financial journalist when she devised the innovative concept of Bloomwood Stores. Now a successful chain around the country, the idea came to her one day as she . . .”

The phone rings and I pick it up.

“Yes?” I say absently. “Rebecca Bloomwood here.” I nearly add, “of Bloomwood Stores,” but maybe that’s a tad premature.

“Ms. Bloomwood, this is Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank.”

What
? I’m so shocked, I drop the phone onto my desk with a clatter and have to scrabble around to pick it up. All the while, my heart’s thumping like a rabbit. How does Derek Smeath know where I work? How did he get my number?

“Are you OK?” says Clare Edwards curiously.

“Yes,” I gulp. “Yes, fine.”

And now she’s looking at me. Now I can’t just put the phone down and pretend it was a wrong number. I’ve got to talk to him. OK, what I’ll do is be really brisk and cheerful and try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Hi!” I say into the phone. “Sorry about that! The thing is, I was just a bit busy with something else. You know how it is!”

“Ms. Bloomwood, I’ve written you several letters,” says Derek Smeath. “And to none of them have I had a satisfactory response.”

Oh, he sounds really cross. This is horrible. Why did he have to come along and spoil my day?

“I’ve been very busy, I’m afraid,” I say. “My . . . my aunt was very ill. I had to go and be with her.”

“I see,” he says. “Nevertheless—”

“And then she died,” I add.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Derek Smeath. He doesn’t
sound
sorry. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that your current account stands at a balance of—”

Has this man got no heart? As he starts talking about balances and overdrafts and agreements, I deliberately tune out so I don’t hear anything that will upset me. I’m staring at the fake wood-grain on my desk, wondering if I could pretend to drop the receiver accidentally back down onto the phone. This is awful. What am I going to do?
What am I going to do
?

“And if the situation is not resolved,” he’s saying sternly, “I’m afraid I will be forced to—”

“It’s OK,” I hear myself interrupting. “It’s OK, because . . . I’m coming into some money soon.” Even as I say the words, I feel my cheeks flame guiltily. But I mean, what else am I supposed to do?

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” I say, and swallow. “The thing is, my . . . my aunt left me some money in her will.”

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, obviously Aunt Ermintrude would have left me some money. After all, I was her favorite niece, wasn’t I? Did anyone else buy her Denny and George scarves? “I’ll get it in a couple of weeks,” I add for good measure. “A thousand pounds.”

Then I realize I should have made it ten thousand—that would have really impressed him. Oh well, too late now.

“You’re saying that in two weeks’ time you’ll be paying a check for a thousand pounds into your account,” says Derek Smeath.

“Erm . . . yes,” I say after a pause. “I suppose I am.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “I’ve made a note of our conversation, Ms. Bloomwood, and I’ll be expecting the arrival of a thousand pounds into your account on Monday 26 March.”

“Good,” I say boldly. “Is that it?”

“For the moment. Good-bye, Ms. Bloomwood.”

“Good-bye,” I say, and put the phone down.

Got rid of him. Thank God.