There's a Cafe 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 any more.
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. My job sounds so grand and exciting when I'm describing it to people like Martin and Janice next door. But now Elly's making me feel like a complete loser.
'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 out 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. A million a year. 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, it all sounds quite scary.
Hmm. If only there was some way that I could get all the nice clothes – but not have to do the scary work. One but not the other. If only there was 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. Enquire within.'
I almost feel shaky 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 easier than becoming a fund manager, hasn't it? All you do is stand around and say 'Can I help you?' In fact, it'll be fun, because 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 8.30 to 5.30 every Saturday, and get £4.80 an hour, and 10 per cent off all the clothes! And after three months, it goes up to 20 per cent! 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 stuff – 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! God, yes. 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 tr
y 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.'
In spite of myself, I can feel my cheeks colouring. Oh God, he sounds really cross. This is horrible. What right has he got 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. You understand.'
'I see,' he says. 'Nevetherless—'
'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. Oh God, 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? I have to say something, otherwise he'll never leave me alone.
'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 favourite 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 £10,000 – that would have really impressed him. Oh well, too late now.
'You're saying that in two weeks' time you'll be paying a cheque for £1,000 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 £1,000 into your account on Monday, 27 March.'
'Good,' I say boldly. 'Is that it?'
'For the moment. Goodbye, Ms Bloomwood.'
'Goodbye,' I say, and put the phone down.
Thank God. Got rid of him.
Brompton's Store
CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS
1 Brompton Street
London SW4 7TH
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
10 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
Thank you for your prompt return of a signed cheque for £43.
Unfortunately, although this cheque is signed, it appears to be dated 14 February 2200. No doubt just an oversight on your part.
Brompton's Store cannot accept post-dated cheques as payment, and I am therefore returning it to you with the request that you return to us a signed cheque, dated with the date of signature.
Alternatively you can pay by cash or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. A leaflet is enclosed for your information.
I look forward to receiving your payment.
Yours sincerely
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
Nine
When I get home that night, there's a pile of post in the hall for me – but I ignore it because my package from Fine Frames has arrived! It cost me £100 to buy, which I suppose is quite expensive, but apparently it will give you a return of £300 in only a few hours. Inside the package there's a leaflet full of photographs of people who make fortunes from doing Fine Frames – and some of them make a hundred thousand a year! It makes me wonder what I'm doing, being a journalist.
So after supper, I sit down in front of EastEnders and open the kit. Suze is out tonight, so it's nice and easy to concentrate.
'Welcome to the best-kept secret in Britain . . .' says the leaflet. 'The Fine Frames home-working family! Join other members and earn £££ in the comfort of your own home. Our easy-to-follow instructions will aid you as you embark on the biggest money-making enterprise of your life. Perhaps you will use your earnings to buy a car, or a boat – or to treat someone special. And remember – the amount you earn is completely up to you!'
I'm utterly gripped. Why on earth haven't I done this before? This is a fantastic scheme! I'll work incredibly hard for two weeks, then pay off all my debts, go on holiday, buy loads of new clothes. God, I can't wait.
I start ripping at the packaging, and suddenly a pile of fabric strips falls onto the floor. Some are plain, and some are a flowered pattern. It's a pretty hideous pattern actually – but then, who cares? My job is just to make the frames and collect the money. I reach for the instructions and find them under a load of cardboard pieces. And sure enough, they're incredibly simple. What you have to do is glue wadding onto the cardboard frame, put the fabric over the top for that luxury upholstered effect, then glue braid along the back to hide the join. And that's it! It's completely simple and you get £2 a frame. There are 150 in the package – so if I do thirty a night for a week I'll have made three hundred quid just like that in my spare time!
OK, let's get started. Frame, wadding, glue, fabric, braid.
Oh God. Oh God. Who designed these bloody things? There just isn't enough fabric to fit over the frame and the wadding. Or at least you have to stretch it really hard – and it's such flimsy fabric, it rips. I've got glue on the carpet, and I've bent two of the cardboard frames from pulling them, and the only frame I've actually completed looks really wonky. And I've been doing it for . . .
I yawn, look at the time and feel a jolt of shock. It's 11.30, which means I've been working for three hours. And in that time I've made one dodgy-looking frame which I'm not sure they'll accept, and ruined two. I hate the sight of the bloody things. What do people want stupid upholstered photo frames for, anyway?
At that moment the door opens and Suze is back.
'Hi!' she says, coming into the sitting room. 'Nice evening?'
'Not really,' I begin disgruntledly. 'I've been making these things . . .'
'Well, never mind,' she says dramatically. 'Because guess what? You've got a secret admirer.'
'What?' I say, startled.
'Someone really likes you,' she says, taking off her coat. 'I heard it tonight. You'll never guess who!'
Luke Brandon pops into my mind before I can stop it. How ridiculous. And how would Suze have found that out, anyway? Stupid idea. Very stupid. Impossible.
She could have bumped into him at the cinema, whispers my brain. She does know him after all, doesn't she? And he could have said . . .
'It's my cousin!' she says triumphantly. 'Tarquin. He really likes you.'
Oh for God's sake.
'He's got this secret little crush on you,' she continues happily. 'In fact. he's had one ever since he met you!'
'It's not that secret . . .' I begin sarcastically – then, as Suze looks up in surprise, I stop. After all, I don't want to hurt her feelings.
'So you already know about it?' she says.
'Well,' I say and shrug. What can I say? I can't tell her that her beloved cousin gives me the creeps. So instead I start to pick at the fabric on the photo frame in front of me, and a delighted smile spreads over Suze's face.
'He's really keen on you!' she says. 'I said he should just ring you and ask you out. You wouldn't mind, would you?'
'Of course not,' I say feebly.
'Wouldn't that be great?' said Suze. 'If you two got married. I could be bridesmaid!'
'Yes,' I say, and force myself to smile brightly. 'Lovely.'
What I'll do, I think, is agree to a date just to be
polite – and then cancel at the last moment. And hopefully Tarquin'll have to go back to Scotland or something, and we can forget all about it.
But to be honest, I could really do without it. Now I've got two reasons to dread the phone ringing.
However, to my relief, Saturday arrives and I haven't heard a word from Tarquin. Or Derek Smeath. Everyone's finally leaving me alone to get on with my life!
On the slightly more negative side, I was planning to make 150 frames this week – but so far I've only made three, and none of them looks like the one in the picture. One doesn't have enough wadding in it, one doesn't quite meet at the corner, and the third has got a smear of glue on the front, which hasn't come off. I just can't understand why I'm finding it so difficult. Some people make hundreds of these things every week, without any effort. Mrs S. of Ruislip even takes her family on a cruise every year on her earnings. How come they can do it and I can't? It's really depressing. I mean, I'm supposed to be bright, aren't I? I've got a degree, for God's sake.
Still, never mind, I tell myself. It's my new job at Ally Smith today – so at least I'll be earning some extra money there.
I'm quite excited about it. Here starts a whole new career in fashion! I spend a long time choosing a cool outfit to wear on my first day – and eventually settle on black trousers from Jigsaw, a little cashmere (well, half cashmere) T-shirt and a pink wrap-around top which actually came from Ally Smith.
I'm quite pleased with the way I look, and am expecting Danielle to make some appreciative comment when I arrive at the shop, but she doesn't even seem to notice. She just says, 'Hi. The trousers and T-shirts are in the stock room. Pick out your size and change in the cubicle.'
Oh right. Now I come to think of it, all the assistants at Ally Smith do wear the same outfits. Almost like a . . . well, a uniform, I suppose. Reluctantly I get changed and look at myself- and, to tell you the truth, I'm disappointed. These grey trousers don't really flatter me, and the T-shirt's just plain boring. I'm almost tempted to ask Danielle if I can pick out another outfit to wear – but she seems a bit busy, so I don't. Maybe next week I'll have a little word.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic: Page 11