Shopaholic to the Stars (19 page)

‘It’s actually a very bad idea to give up shopping altogether,’ I explain. ‘You have to learn to exercise your control muscle. Being in here is like a workout for me.’

‘Right.’ Suze looks dubious. ‘So what happens next?’

‘So, I’ll just make the purchases I need to, calmly and with meaning.’

I love that phrase. David kept saying it yesterday.
You need to learn to shop calmly and with meaning
.

‘But you don’t need to buy anything,’ objects Suze.

‘Yes I do! I need a book, actually. David told me to buy it. So.’ I lead my way over to the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy section, and reach for a book titled
Catching Thoughts: Your Introduction to CBT
.

‘This is what I do in my group,’ I say importantly, pointing at the title. ‘Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. If I want to buy something and it’s not appropriate, I have to restructure my thoughts. I have to identify my cognitive errors and challenge them.’

‘Wow.’ For the first time, Suze looks genuinely impressed. ‘Is that hard?’

‘No, it’s quite easy,’ I say, flipping through the book. ‘I’ll get the audio version too, so I can listen to it when I’m out jogging. And there are some other titles David said I should look at, too.’

I start scooping hardbacks into my basket.
CBT Thought Diary, CBT for Spending Addiction, The Compulsive Spender’s Journal, Shopaholic: Break the Pattern
… As I pile the books up I feel a glow of virtue. David was right, I
can
break free of my old ways. There are some really cool pencils too, matt black with slogans like
Growth
and
Exhale
. I’ll get a pack.

Suze is watching me, a bit nonplussed.

‘But Bex, how is this different from normal shopping? Where’s the challenging or whatever it is?’

Oh, right. I’d forgotten about that, just for a moment.

‘I was
coming
to that,’ I say, a little severely. ‘You put the things in your basket and
then
you challenge yourself.’

I lift up the top book and stare at it intently. I’m actually a bit hazy about what I should do next, not that I’ll admit that to Suze.

‘I need this book,’ I say at last, in a sonorous voice. ‘This is my belief. The evidence for this belief is: David told me I should get it. The evidence against it is … none. So. I will buy it, calmly and with meaning. Amen.’

‘Amen?’
Suze gives a sudden giggle.

‘That just slipped out,’ I admit. ‘Anyway, wasn’t that cool? I’ve totally learned how to challenge myself.’

‘Do the pencils now,’ Suze says.

‘OK.’ I take the pencils out and focus on them. ‘I need these pencils. This is my belief. The evidence for this belief is: pencils are always useful. The evidence against is …’

I stop dead as a thought strikes me. I’ve already bought a pack of these pencils, haven’t I? The first day I came here. What did I do with them?

‘The evidence against,’ I continue triumphantly, ‘is that I’ve already got some! So I’m going to put them back!’

With a flourish, I put the pack of pencils back on the shelf. ‘You see? I’m
controlling
myself. I’m a completely different person. Impressed?’

‘Well, OK. But what about all those books?’ Suze nods at my basket. ‘Surely you don’t need so many?’

Hasn’t she been listening to anything I’ve been saying?

‘Of course I need them,’ I say as patiently as I can. ‘They’re essential for my progress. I’m going to buy them calmly and with meaning.’ I reach for a gorgeous notepad. ‘I’m going to buy this calmly and with meaning, too. I can keep my dream journal in it. Everyone should keep a dream journal, did you know that?’

Suze still looks dissatisfied as I put it in my basket.

‘All right, so suppose you
do
shop too much,’ she says. ‘What do you do then?’

‘Then you use different techniques,’ I explain. ‘Like tapping.’

‘What’s tapping?’

‘Oh, it’s brilliant,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘You tap your face and chin and stuff, and you say mantras, and it frees your meridians and cures you.’

‘What?’
Suze stares at me.

‘It’s true!’

Tapping is almost my favourite class. Plus, I think it must be very good for toning the facial muscles, tapping your chin the whole time. I put my basket down and turn to demonstrate.

‘You tap your forehead and you say, “I know I have bought too much but I deeply and completely accept myself.” See?’ I beam at her. ‘Easy.’ I tap my chest for good measure, and the top of my head.

‘Bex …’ Suze seems perplexed.

‘What?’

‘Are you
sure
you’re doing it right?’

‘Of course I’m doing it right!’

The trouble with Suze is, she hasn’t had her mind opened, like I have. She hasn’t been exposed to the wealth of mind–spirit enhancement that’s out there.

‘You’ll learn the ways of Golden Peace after you’ve been here a bit,’ I say kindly. ‘Now, let’s try on T-shirts!’

GOLDEN PEACE GIFT STORE

Customer invoice

Ms Rebecca Brandon

Membership No: 1658

I would have thought Suze would be more impressed by Golden Peace. I think she’s got a mental block. She’s prejudiced, that’s what it is. She hasn’t signed up for a single class, and she didn’t even buy a T-shirt. All she keeps saying is, she thinks it’s all really expensive, and what’s the point?

The point? Hasn’t she noticed how transformed I am?

Luckily Tarkie is on my side. He thinks Golden Peace is great, and he’s really bonded with Bryce.

‘We both think exactly the same way about light pollution,’ he’s saying now. It’s breakfast time the next day, and we’re all gathered in the kitchen. ‘Light pollution is a modern evil, but politicians simply won’t listen.’

I can see Suze rolling her eyes, and give her a little smile. Tarkie is so obsessed about light pollution, he goes around Letherby Hall all the time, switching off lights, and Suze creeps after him, switching them back on.

‘Right!’ I approach the table triumphantly, holding a plate. ‘Here’s our healthy LA breakfast. It’s a steamed egg-white omelette, made with kale.’

There’s silence around the table. Everyone is looking at the plate in horror.

OK, I admit it doesn’t look exactly like an omelette. It’s kind of white and shapeless, and the kale has turned grey-green. But it’s healthy.

‘A steamed omelette?’ says Suze, at last.

‘I did it in the microwave, in a Ziploc bag,’ I explain. ‘It’s fat-free. Who’d like the first one?’

There’s another silence.

‘Ahm … It looks delicious, I must say.’ Tarquin plunges in. ‘But you don’t have any kippers, do you?’

‘No, I don’t have any kippers!’ I say, a bit rattled. ‘This isn’t Scotland, it’s LA, and everyone eats steamed omelettes.’

Luke finally looks up from the letter he’s been reading. ‘What’s
that
?’ he says in horror, then sees my face and adjusts his expression. ‘I mean … what’s that?’

‘It’s a steamed omelette.’ I prod it disconsolately.

They’re right, it does look disgusting. And I spent
ages
separating all the eggs and chopping up all the kale. The recipe was in a book called
Power Brunch
, and I thought everyone would be really impressed. I don’t dare tell them about the mushroom protein shake, which I’ve got waiting in the blender.

‘Bex, where are the egg yolks you didn’t use?’ says Suze suddenly.

‘In a bowl.’

‘Well, why don’t I make an omelette with them?’

Before I can stop her, Suze is heating up a pan, putting lashings of butter into it, and frying up the most delicious, yellow, crispy omelette I’ve ever seen, together with ribbons of bacon which she got from the fridge.

‘There.’

She puts it on the table, and everyone falls on it. I take a forkful myself and nearly die with pleasure.

‘They should do
egg-yolk
omelettes in restaurants,’ says Suze, her mouth full. ‘Why’s everyone so obsessed by egg whites, anyway? They don’t taste of anything.’

‘They’re healthy.’

‘Crap,’ says Suze robustly. ‘We feed egg yolks to our lambs and they’re perfectly healthy.’

Luke is pouring coffee for everyone, Suze is slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, and spirits have generally lifted.

‘So.’ Luke looks around the table. ‘I’ve had an invitation today. Who fancies coming to a gala benefit at the Beverly Hilton?’

‘Me!’ Suze and I exclaim simultaneously.

‘It’s for …’ He squints at the letter. ‘Victims of discrimination. Some new charity.’

‘I read about that!’ says Suze in excitement. ‘Salma Hayek will be there! Can we really go?’

‘Sage is asking us all to sit on her table, house guests included.’ Luke smiles at Suze. ‘You’re in.’

‘Tarkie, did you hear that?’ Suze leans across the table, brandishing her toast. ‘We’ve been invited to a real Hollywood party!’

‘A party.’ Tarquin looks as though he’s been told he has to have a tooth out. ‘Wonderful.’

‘It’ll be
fun
,’ says Suze. ‘You might meet Salma Hayek.’

‘Ah.’ He looks vague. ‘Marvellous.’

‘You don’t know who Salma Hayek is, do you?’ says Suze accusingly.

‘Of course I do.’ Tarkie looks trapped. ‘He’s … an actor. Jolly talented.’

‘She!
She’s
jolly talented!’ Suze sighs. ‘I’ll have to coach you before we go. Here, read this, for a start.’ She passes him a copy of
US Weekly
, just as Minnie and Wilfrid run into the kitchen.

Having the Cleath-Stuarts to stay is brilliant for Minnie. I don’t think she’s ever had so much fun in her life. She’s wearing two baseball caps, one on top of the other, holding a shoe horn like a riding crop, and ‘riding’ Wilfrid like a horse.

‘Go, horsey!’ she yells, and pulls on the ‘reins’, which consist of about six of Luke’s belts buckled together. The next minute, Clementine appears, ‘riding’ Ernest.

‘Let’s jump, Minnie!’ she squeals. ‘Let’s jump over the sofas!’

‘No!’ says Suze. ‘Stop running about and come and have some breakfast. Who wants toast?’

I notice she’s diplomatically not even referring to the egg-white omelette. I think we’ll all just pretend it never existed.

As all the children get settled into their seats, I suddenly notice that Minnie has reached out for my phone.

‘Please phone,’ she says promptly. ‘Pleeeeeease.
Pleeeeeeeease
!’ She hugs it to her ear as though it’s her newborn infant and I’m Herod.

I’ve given Minnie about three plastic toy phones, but they don’t fool her for an instant. You have to admire her, really. So I always end up giving in and letting her hold my phone – even though I’m paranoid she’s going to drop it in her milk or something.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘Just for a minute.’

‘Hello!’ says Minnie into the phone, and beams at me. ‘Hello, Oraaaa!’

Ora? Ora Bitch Long-legs?

‘Don’t talk to Ora, darling,’ I say lightly. ‘Talk to someone else. Talk to Page. She’s a sweet little girl.’

‘Talk Ora,’ Minnie says stubbornly. ‘Love Ora.’

‘You don’t love Ora!’ I snap, before I can stop myself.