Confessions of a Shopaholic (34 page)

Yes! Thank you, God!

“Ah, well,” I say knowledgeably. “A typical woman of thirty, who invested £100 a month, would receive an income of £9,000 on retirement at sixty. That’s assuming 7 percent growth.”

Bingo. Rory and Emma look
so
impressed. OK, quick, what else?

“But you should also look for flexibility, Anne,” I continue. “Choose a scheme which allows you to take a ‘holiday’ from payments, because you never know when you might need it.”

“That’s true,” says Anne thoughtfully. “I’d like to take a year off sometime and travel a bit.”

“Well, there you are!” I say triumphantly. “If you do that, you’ll want to be able to pause your pension payments. In fact, what I would do is—”

“Thanks, Rebecca,” chimes in Emma. “Wise advice there! Now we’re going to go briefly to Davina for news and weather . . .”

I’m rather disappointed at being interrupted. There were so many more things I could have said to Anne. All the points I made in my pensions article are popping up in my head—and now that there’s a real person involved, they all suddenly seem a lot more interesting. In fact, the whole subject seems more interesting today. It’s as though all this stuff has suddenly got a point.

Believe it or not, I’m really enjoying the questions on this phone-in. I know about mortgages and I know about life insurance and I know about unit trusts. I know so much more than I ever realized! A few minutes ago, Kenneth from St. Austell asked what the annual contribution limit for an ISA is—and the figure £5,000 just jumped right into my head. It’s as if some bit of my mind has been storing every single bit of information I’ve ever written—and now, when I need it, it’s all there.

“And after the break,” Emma’s saying, “since so many of you are ringing in, we’ll be coming back to this phone-in: ‘Managing Your Money.’ ”

“Lots of people with money problems out there,” chimes in Rory.

“Absolutely,” says Emma. “And we want to help. So whatever your query, however big or small, please call in for Rebecca Bloomwood’s advice, on 0333 4567.” She freezes for a moment, smiling at the camera, then relaxes back in her chair as the light goes off. “Well, this is going very well!” she says brightly, as a makeup girl hurries up and touches up her face with powder. “Isn’t it, Zelda?”

“Fantastic!” says Zelda, appearing out of nowhere. “The lines haven’t been this busy since we did ‘I’d Like to Meet a Spice Girl.’ ” She looks curiously at me. “Have you ever done a course in television presenting, Rebecca?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I haven’t. But . . . I’ve watched a lot of telly.”

Zelda roars with laughter. “Good answer! OK, folks, we’re back in thirty.”

Emma smiles at me and consults a piece of paper in front of her, and Rory leans back and examines his nails.

I’ve never felt so completely and utterly happy. Never. Not even that time I found a Vivienne Westwood bustier for £60 in the Harvey Nichols sale. (I wonder where that is, actually. I must get round to wearing it sometime.) This beats everything. Life is perfect.

I lean back, full of contentment, and am idly looking around the studio when an oddly familiar figure catches my eye. I peer harder, and my skin starts to prickle in horror. There’s a man standing in the gloom of the studio—and honestly, I must be hallucinating or something, because he looks exactly like—

“And . . . welcome back,” says Rory, and my attention snaps back to the set. “This morning’s phone-in is on financial problems, big and small. Our guest expert is Rebecca Bloomwood and our next caller is Fran from Shrewsbury. Fran?”

“Yes,” says Fran. “Hi. Hi, Rebecca.”

“Hi there, Fran,” I say, smiling warmly. “And what seems to be the trouble?”

“I’m in a mess,” says Fran. “I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you in debt, Fran?” says Emma gently.

“Yes,” says Fran, and gives a shaky sigh. “I’m overdrawn, I owe money on all my credit cards, I’ve borrowed money off my sister . . . and I just can’t stop spending. I just . . . love buying things.”

“What sort of things?” says Rory interestedly.

“I don’t know, really,” says Fran after a pause. “Clothes for me, clothes for the kids, things for the house, just rubbish, really. Then the bills arrive . . . and I throw them away.”

Emma gives me a significant look, and I raise my eyebrows back. But my cool act is starting to falter a little at Fran’s story.

“It’s like a vicious circle,” Fran’s saying. “The more in debt I am, the worse I feel, so I go out and spend more.”

Outstanding bills. Credit card debts. Overdrafts
. All the things I’ve been desperate not to think about are being thrust back into my mind. Desperately I thrust them back out again.

“Rebecca?” she says. “Fran’s obviously in a bit of a spot. What should she be doing?”

For an instant I feel like crying
Why ask me
? But I can’t crumble, I have to do this. I have to be Rebecca Bloomwood, top financial expert. Summoning all my strength, I force myself to smile sympathetically at the camera.

“Well, Fran,” I say. “The first thing you’ve got to do is . . . is be brave and confront the issue. Contact the bank and tell them you’re having trouble managing.” I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I know myself how hard it can be to tackle this kind of problem—but I can honestly tell you, running away doesn’t solve anything. The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll get.”

“Rebecca,” says Emma earnestly. “Would you say this is a common problem?”

“I’m afraid it is,” I reply. “It’s all too easy to forget those unpaid bills, to put them in a dressing table drawer, or . . . or throw them in a skip . . .”

“A skip?” says Rory, looking puzzled.

“Whatever,” I say hurriedly. “Everybody’s different.”

“I put mine in the dog basket,” interjects Fran. “Then he chews them and I can’t read them.”

“I can understand that,” I say, nodding. “But you know what, Fran? Once you take those letters out of the dog basket and actually read them, you’ll find they’re not nearly as bad as you think.”

“You really think so?” says Fran tremulously.

“Open each envelope,” I suggest, “and write down all the outstanding amounts. Then make a plan to pay them off, even if it’s only £5 a week. You can do it.”

There’s a long pause.

“Fran?” says Emma. “Are you still there?”

“Yes!” says Fran. “Yes, I’m still here—and I’m going to do it! You’ve convinced me. Thanks, Becky! I really appreciate your help!”

I beam back at the camera, my confidence restored.

“It’s a pleasure,” I say. “And you know, Fran, as soon as you turn that corner and wake up to the real world, your life will be transformed.”

I make a confident sweeping gesture with my arm, and as I do so, my gaze takes in the whole studio. And . . . oh my God, it’s him.

I’m not hallucinating.

It’s really him. Standing at the corner of the set, wearing a security badge and sipping something in a polystyrene cup as though he belongs here. Derek Smeath is standing here in the
Morning Coffee
studios, ten yards away from me.

Derek Smeath of Endwich Bank. It doesn’t make any sense. What’s he doing here?

Oh God, and now he’s staring straight at me.

My heart begins to pound, and I swallow hard, trying to keep control of myself.

“Rebecca?” Emma says puzzledly, and I force myself to turn my attention back to the show. But all my confident words are withering on my lips. “So you really think, if she tries, Fran will be able to get her life in order?”

“I . . . that’s right,” I say, and force a smile. “It’s just a question of facing up to it.”

I’m trying desperately to stay cool and professional—but all the bits of my life I’d so carefully buried are starting to worm their way out again. Here they come, wriggling into my mind, one piece of dreadful reality after another.

“Well,” says Rory. “Let’s all hope Fran takes Rebecca’s very good advice.”

My bank account. Thousands of pounds of debt.

“We’re out of time, I’m afraid,” says Emma, “but before we go, do you have any last words of advice, Rebecca?”

My VISA card, canceled. My Octagon card, confiscated in front of that whole crowd. God, that was humiliating.

OK, stop it. Concentrate. Concentrate.

“Yes,” I say, forcing a confident tone. “I would just say . . . in the same way you might have a medical checkup once a year, do the same with your finances. Don’t ignore them until they become a problem!”

My whole terrible, disorganized life
. It’s all there, isn’t it? Waiting for me, like a great big spider. Just waiting to pounce, as soon as this phone-in ends.

“Wise words from our financial expert,” says Emma. “Many thanks to Rebecca Bloomwood, and I’m sure we’ll all be heeding her advice. Coming up after the break, the results of our makeover in Newcastle and Heaven Sent 7, live in the studio.”

There’s a frozen pause, then everyone relaxes.

“Right,” says Emma, consulting her piece of paper. “Where are we next?”

“Good work, Rebecca,” says Rory cheerfully. “Excellent stuff.”

“Oh, Zelda!” says Emma, leaping up. “Could I have a quick word? That was fab, Rebecca,” she adds. “Really fab.”

And suddenly they’re both gone. And I’m left alone on the set, exposed and vulnerable. Rebecca Bloomwood, top financial expert, has vanished. All that’s left is me, Becky. Shrinking on my seat and frantically trying to avoid Derek Smeath’s eye.

I don’t have anything to give him. The money from
The Daily World
has got to go straight to Suze. I’m in as much trouble as I ever was. What am I going to do?

Maybe I could slip out at the back.

Maybe I could stick it out here on the sofa. Just sit here until he gets bored and leaves. I mean, he won’t dare to come onto the actual set, will he? Or maybe I could
pretend to be someone else
. God yes. I mean, with all this makeup on, I practically look like someone else, anyway. I could just walk quickly past, and if he talks to me, answer in a foreign accent. Or else . . .

And then suddenly I stop, midtrack. It’s as though I’m hearing my own thoughts for the first time in my life. And what I hear makes me ashamed of myself.

Who do I think I’m kidding? What exactly will I achieve by dodging Derek Smeath one more time? It’s time to grow up, Becky, I tell myself. It’s time to stop running away. If Fran from Shrewsbury can do it, then so can Rebecca from London.

I stand up, take a deep breath, and walk slowly across the set to Derek Smeath.

“Hello, Mr. Smeath,” I say in polite, calm tones. “What a coincidence to see you here.” I hold out my hand for a symbolic, peacemaking handshake, but Derek Smeath doesn’t even seem to see it. He’s staring at me as though he’s seen a goldfish begin to talk.

“
Coincidence
?” he echoes at last, and a technician gestures to us to keep our voices down. Derek Smeath firmly ushers me out of the studio into a foyer area and turns to face me, and I feel a twinge of fear at his expression.

“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “Miss Bloomwood—” He rubs his face with his hand, then looks up. “Do you know quite how long I have been writing letters to you? Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you into the bank for a meeting?”

“Ahm . . . I’m not quite—”

“Six months,” says Derek Smeath, and pauses. “Six long months of excuses and prevarication. Now, I’d just like you to think about what that means for me. It means endless letters. Numerous phone calls. Hours of time and effort on my part and that of my assistant, Erica. Resources which, quite frankly, could be better spent elsewhere.” He gestures sharply with his polystyrene cup and some coffee slops onto the floor. “Then finally I pin you down to a cast-iron appointment. Finally I think you’re taking your situation seriously . . . And you don’t turn up. You disappear completely. I telephone your home to find out where you are, and get accused most unpleasantly of being some kind of stalker!”

“Oh yes,” I say, and pull an apologetic face. “Sorry about that. It’s just my dad, you know. He’s a bit weird.”

“I’d all but given up on you,” says Derek Smeath, his voice rising. “I’d all but given up. And then I’m passing a television shop this morning, and what should I see, on six different screens, but the missing, vanished Rebecca Bloomwood, advising the nation. And what are you advising them on?” He begins to shake with laughter. (At least, I think it’s laughter.) “Finance!
You
are advising the British public . . . on finance!”

I stare at him, taken aback. It’s not
that
funny.

“Look, I’m very sorry I couldn’t make the last meeting,” I say, trying to sound businesslike. “Things were a bit difficult for me at that time. But if we could reschedule . . .”

“Reschedule!” cries Derek Smeath, as though I’ve just cracked a hysterical joke. “Reschedule!”

I gaze at him indignantly. He’s not taking me seriously at all, is he? He hasn’t shaken my hand, and he’s not even listening to what I’m saying. I’m telling him I want to come in for a meeting—I actually
want
to—and he’s just treating me like a joke.

And no wonder
, interrupts a tiny voice inside me.
Look at the way you’ve behaved. Look at the way you’ve treated him. Frankly, it’s a wonder he’s being civil to you at all
.

I look up at his face, still crinkled in laughter . . . and suddenly feel very chastened.

Because the truth is, he could have been a lot nastier to me than he has been. He could have taken my card away a long time ago. Or sent the bailiffs round. Or had me blacklisted. He’s actually been very nice to me, one way or another, and all I’ve done is lie and wriggle and run away.

“Listen,” I say quickly. “Please. Give me another chance. I really want to sort my finances out. I want to repay my overdraft. But I need you to help me. I’m . . .” I swallow. “I’m asking you to help me, Mr. Smeath.”

There’s a long pause. Derek Smeath looks around for a place to put his coffee cup, takes a white handkerchief out of his pocket, and rubs his brow with it. Then he puts it away and gives me a long look.

“You’re serious,” he says at last.