Chapter One
Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; afew numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?
I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willingmyself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. It's only apiece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I'm not stupid, am I?I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be.
Sort of. Roughly.
It'll be about ... 200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe 300. Three-fifty, max.
I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. Andthere was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red andyellow rug. The rug was 200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worthevery penny—everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.
And the Jigsaw suit was on sale—30 percent off. So that was actually savingmoney.
I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remembernew contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to getthose, didn't I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?
And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergeniceyeliner. So that takes it up to ... 400?
At the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. She's sortingall her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She putsrubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like "Answerimmediately" and "Not urgent but respond." I loathe Clare Edwards.
"OK, Becky?" she says.
"Fine," I say lightly. "Just reading a letter."
I reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers don't quite pull out the bill.They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized—as it is every month—bymy secret dream.
Do you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read inThe Daily World about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, Icut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sentto the wrong people, and—get this—each person paid the wrong bill withoutrealizing. They paid off each other's bills without even checking them.
And ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thingwill happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely ? but if it happened once,it can happen again, can't it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent myhumongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I'll be sent herbill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, I'llpay without question. Fair's fair, after all.
A smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. I'm convincedthat this month it'll happen—my secret dream is about to come true. But when Ieventually pull the bill out of the envelope—goaded by Clare's curious gaze—my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I thinkit could be panic.
The page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes likea mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but they're moving too fast.Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing inThorntons Chocolates? I'm supposed to be on a diet. This bill can't be right.This can't be me. I can't possibly have spent all this money.
Don't panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entryslowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly,starting at the top.
WHSmith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery.)
Boots (everyone needs shampoo)
Specsavers (essential)
Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)
Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to havethat, didn't I?)
Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)
Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)
Esso (petrol doesn't count)
Quaglinos (expensive—but it was a one-off)
Pret—Manger (that time I ran out of cash)
Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)
Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)
La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)
Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)
Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)
Next (fairly boring white shirt—but it was in the sale)
Millets...
I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What would I be doing inMillets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying tothink—and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It's obvious. Someone else hasbeen using my card.
Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.
Now it all makes sense. Some criminal's pinched my credit card and forged mysignature. Who knows where else they've used it? No wonder my statement's soblack with figures! Someone's gone on a spending spree round London with mycard—and they thought they would just get away with it.
But how? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it—and there's my VISA card,staring up at me. I take it out and run my fingers over the glossy surface.Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it—and then put it back. Itmust be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?
I look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn't very bright. Using mycard at Millets! It's almost laughable. As if I'd ever shop there.
"I've never even been into Millets!" I say aloud.
"Yes you have," says Clare.
"What?" I turn to her. "No I haven't."
"You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?"
I feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael.The blue sodding anorak from Millets.
When Michael, our deputy editor, left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy hispresent. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop andpicked out an anorak (take it from me, he's that kind of guy). And at the lastminute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all that handy cashfor myself.
I can vividly remember fishing out the four 5 notes and carefully putting themin my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coincompartment, and pouring the rest of the change into the bottom of my bag. Ohgood, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cash machine. I'd thoughtthat sixty quid would last me for weeks.
So what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it,can I?
"Why are you asking, anyway?" says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see herbeady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I'm looking at myVISA bill. "No reason," I say, briskly turning to the second page of mystatement.
But I've been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do— look atthe minimum payment required and ignore the total completely—I find myselfstaring straight at the bottom figure.
Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.
For thirty seconds I am completely motionless. Then, without changingexpression, I stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel as thoughthis piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let itdrop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners willsweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can't charge me for a bill Inever received, can they?
I'm already composing a letter in my head. "Dear Managing Director of VISA. Yourletter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I neverreceived any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and shouldwarn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of Watchdog."
Or I could always move abroad.
"Becky?" My head jerks up and I see Clare holding this month's news list. "Haveyou finished the piece on Lloyds?"
"Nearly," I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on mycomputer screen, just to show I'm willing.
"This high-yield, 60-day access account offers tiered rates of interest oninvestments of over 2,000," I type onto the screen, copying directly from apress release in front of me. "Long-term savers may also be interested in a newstepped-rate bond which requires a minimum of 5,000."
I type a full stop, take a sip of coffee, and turn to the second page of thepress release.
This is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'mpaid to tell other people how to organize their money.
Of course, being a financial journalist is not the career I always wanted. Noone who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they"fell into" personal finance. They're lying. What they mean is they couldn't geta job writing about anything more interesting. They mean they applied for jobsat The Times and The Express and Marie-Claire andVogue and GQ, and all they got back was "Piss off."
So they started applying to Metalwork Monthly and CheesemakersGazette and What Investment Plan? And they were taken on as thecrappiest editorial assistant possible on no money whatsoever and were grateful.And they've stayed on writing about metal, or cheese, or savings, ever since ?because that's all they know. I myself started on the catchily tITLedPersonal Investment Periodical. I learned how to copy out a press releaseand nod at press conferences and ask questions that sounded as though I knewwhat I was talking about. After a year and a half—believe it or not—I washead-hunted to Successful Saving.
Of course, I still know nothing about finance. People at the bus stop know moreabout finance than me. Schoolchildren know more than me. I've been doing thisjob for three years now, and I'm still expecting someone to catch me out.
Continues...
Excerpted from Confessions of a Shopaholicby Sophie Kinsella Copyright © 2003 by Sophie Kinsella. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
