The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  'Right,' I say, and swallow. 'Great.'

  Something in me is telling me to turn and run – but we've already arrived at a pale blond-wood door.

  'Here we are,' says Amy, and smiles at me. 'Would you like tea or coffee?'

  'Coffee please,' I say, wishing I could say, 'A stiff gin, please.' Amy knocks on the door, opens it and ushers me in, and says, 'Rebecca Bloomwood.'

  'Rebecca!' says a dark-haired woman behind the desk, and gets up to shake my hand.

  To my slight surprise, Jill is not nearly as well dressed as Amy. She's wearing a blue, rather mumsy looking suit, and boring court shoes. But still, never mind, she's the boss. And her office is pretty amazing.

  'It's very good to meet you,' she says, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. 'And let me say straight away, I was extremely impressed by your CV.'

  'Really?' I say, feeling relief creep over me. That can't be bad, can it? Extremely impressed. Maybe it won't matter if I don't know the answers to those questions.

  'Particularly by your languages,' adds Jill. 'Very good. You do seem to be one of those rare breeds, an all-rounder.'

  'Well, my French is really only conversational,' I say modestly. 'Void la plume de ma tante, and all that!'

  Jill gives an appreciative laugh, and I beam back at her.

  'But Finnish!' she says, reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk. 'That's quite unusual.'

  I keep smiling and hope we move off the subject of languages. To be honest, 'fluent in Finnish' went in because I thought 'conversational French' looked a bit bare on its own. After all, who speaks Finnish, for God's sake? No-one.

  'And your financial knowledge,' she says, pulling my CV towards her. 'You seem to have covered a lot of different areas during your years in financial journalism.' She looks up. 'What attracts you to derivatives in particular?'

  What? What's she talking about? Oh yes. Derivatives. They're futures, aren't they?

  'Well,' I begin confidently – and am interrupted as Amy comes in with a cup of coffee.

  'Thanks,' I say, and look up, hoping we've moved on to something else. But she's still waiting for an answer. 'I think futures are the future,' I say seriously. 'They're an extremely challenging area and I think . . .' What do I think? Oh God. Should I throw in a quick reference to butterflies or expiry dates or something? Probably better not. 'I think I'd be well suited to that particular field,' I say at last.

  'I see,' says Jill Foxton, and leans back in her chair. 'The reason I ask, is there's a position we have in banking which I think might also suit you. I don't know what you would feel about that.'

  A position in banking? Is she serious? Has she actually found me a job? I don't believe it!

  'Well, that would be fine by me,' I say, trying not to sound too joyful. 'I mean, I'd miss the futures – but then, banking's good too, isn't it?'

  Jill laughs. I think she thinks I'm joking or something.

  'The client is a triple-A rated foreign bank, looking for a new recruit in the London arm of their debt financing division.'

  'Right,' I say intelligently.

  'I don't know whether you're familiar with the principles of European back-to-back arbitrage?'

  'Absolutely,' I say confidently. 'I wrote an article on that very subject last year.'

  What was that word, again? Arbi-something.

  'Obviously I'm not trying to rush you into any decision,' she says, 'but if you do want a change of career, I'd say this would be perfect for you. There'd be an interview, of course, but I can't see any problems there.' She smiles at me. 'And we'll be able to negotiate you a very attractive package.'

  'Really?' Suddenly I can't quite breathe. She's going to negotiate an attractive package. For me!

  'Oh yes,' says Jill. 'Well, you must realize you're a bit of a one-off.' She gives me a confidential smile. 'You know, when your CV came through yesterday, I actually whooped! I mean, the coincidence!'

  'Absolutely,' I say, beaming at her. God, this is fantastic. This is a bloody dream come true. I'm going to be a banker! And not just any old banker – a triple-A rated banker!

  'So,' says Jill casually. 'Shall we go and meet your new employer?'

  'What?' I say in astonishment, and a little smile spreads over her face.

  'I didn't want to tell you until I'd met you – but the recruitment director of Bank of Helsinki is over here for a meeting with our managing director. I just know he's going to love you. We can have the whole thing wrapped up by this afternoon!'

  'Excellent!' I say, and get to my feet. Hahaha! I'm going to be a banker!

  It's only as we're halfway down the corridor that her words begin to impinge on my mind. Bank of Helsinki.

  Bank of Helsinki. That doesn't mean . . . Surely she doesn't think . . .

  'I can't wait to hear the two of you talking away in Finnish,' says Jill pleasantly, as we begin to climb a flight of stairs. 'It's not a language I know at all.'

  Oh my God. Oh my God. No.

  'But then, my languages have always been hopeless,' she adds comfortably. 'I'm not talented in that department. Not like you!'

  I flash her a little smile, and keep walking, without missing a step. But my heart's thumping and I can hardly breathe. Shit. What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?

  We turn a corner and begin to walk calmly down another corridor. And I'm doing pretty well. As long as we just keep walking, I'm OK.

  'Was Finnish a hard language to learn?' asks Jill.

  'Not that hard,' I hear myself saying in a scratchy voice. 'My . . . my father's half-Finnish.'

  'Yes, I thought it must be something like that,' says Jill. 'I mean, it's not the sort of thing you learn at school, is it?' And she gives a jolly little laugh.

  It's all right for her, I think savagely. She's not the one being led to her death. Oh God, this is terrible. People keep passing us and glancing at me and smiling, as if to say, 'So that's the Finnish-speaker!'

  Why did I put I was fluent in Finnish? Why?

  'All right?' says Jill. 'Not nervous?'

  'Oh no!' I say at once, and force a grin onto my face. 'Of course I'm not nervous!'

  Maybe I'll be able to busk it, I think suddenly. I mean, the guy won't conduct the whole bloody interview in Finnish, will he? He'll just say 'Haållø' or whatever it is, and I'll say 'Haållø' back, and then before he can say anything else, I'll quickly say, 'You know, my technical Finnish is a bit rusty these days. Would you mind if we spoke in English?' And he'll say . . .

  'Nearly there,' says Jill, and smiles at me.

  'Good,' I say brightly, and clasp my sweaty hand more tightly round my briefcase handle. Oh God. Please save me from this. Please . . .

  'Here we are!' she says, and stops at a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM. She knocks twice, then pushes it open. There's a roomful of people sitting round a table, and they all turn to look at me.

  'Jan Virtanen,' she says. 'I'd like you to meet Rebecca Bloomwood.'

  A bearded man rises from his chair, gives me a huge smile and extends his hand.

  'Neiti Bloomwood,' he says cheerfully. 'On oikein hauska tavata. Pitääkö paikkansa että teillä on jonkin-lainen yhteys Suomeen?'

  I stare speechlessly at him, feeling my face turn red. Everyone in the room is waiting for me to answer.

  'I . . . erm . . . erm . . . Haållø!' I lift my hand in a friendly little wave, and smile around the room.

  But nobody smiles back.

  'Erm . . . I've just got to . . .' I start backing away. 'Just got to . . .'

  And I turn. And I run.

  Eleven

  As I arrive back down in the foyer, I'm panting slightly. Which is not surprising, since I've just run about a half-marathon along endless corridors, trying to get out of this place. I descend the final flight of stairs (couldn't risk the lifts in case the Finnish brigade suddenly turned up), then pause to catch my breath. I straighten my skirt, transfer my briefcase from one sweaty hand to the other, and begin to walk c
almly across the foyer towards the door, as though I've come out of an utterly ordinary, utterly unspectacular meeting. I don't look right and I don't look left. I don't think about the fact that I've just completely shredded any chances I had of becoming a top City banker. All I can think about is getting to that glass door and getting outside before anyone can . . .

  'Rebecca!' comes a voice behind my head, and I freeze. Shit. They've got me.

  'Haållø!' I gulp, turning round. 'Haåll . . . Oh. Hell . . . Hello.'

  It's Luke Brandon.

  It's Luke Brandon, standing right in front of me, looking down at me with that strange stare he always seems to have.

  'This isn't the sort of place I would have expected to find you,' he says. 'You're not after a City job, are you?'

  And why shouldn't I be? Doesn't he think I'm clever enough?

  'Actually,' I say haughtily, 'I'm thinking of a change of career. Maybe into foreign banking. Or futures broking.'

  'Really?' he says. 'That's a shame.'

  A shame? What does that mean? Why is it a shame? As I look up at him, his dark eyes meet mine, and I feel a little flicker, deep inside me. Out of nowhere, Clare's words pop into my head. Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend.

  'What . . .' I clear my throat. 'What are you doing here, anyway?'

  'Oh, I recruit from here quite often,' he says. 'They're very efficient. Soulless, but efficient.' He shrugs, then looks at my shiny briefcase. 'Have they fixed you up with anything yet?'

  'I've . . . I've got a number of options open to me,' I say. 'I'm just considering my next move.'

  Which to be honest, is straight out the door.

  'I see,' he says, and pauses. 'Did you take the day off to come here?'

  'Yes,' I say. 'Of course I did.'

  What does he think? That I just sloped off for a couple of hours and said I was at a press conference?

  Actually, that's not a bad idea. I might try that next time.

  'So – what are you up to now?' he asks.

  Don't say 'nothing'. Never say 'nothing'.

  'Well, I've got some bits and pieces to do,' I say. 'Calls to make, people to see. That kind of thing.'

  'Ah,' he says, nodding. 'Yes. Well. Don't let me keep you.' He looks around the foyer. 'And I hope it all works out for you, job-wise.'

  'Thanks,' I say, giving him a businesslike smile.

  And then he's gone, walking off towards the doors, and I'm left holding my clunky briefcase, feeling just a bit disappointed. I wait until he's disappeared, then wander slowly over to the doors myself and go out onto the street. And then I stop. To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure what to do next. I'd kind of planned to spend the day ringing everyone up and telling them about my fab new job as a futures broker. Instead of which . . . Well, anyway. Let's not think about that.

  But I can't stand still on the pavement outside William Green all day. People will start thinking I'm a piece of installation art or something. So eventually I begin walking along the street, figuring I'll arrive at a tube soon enough and then I can decide what to do. I come to a corner and I'm just waiting for the traffic to stop, when a taxi pulls up beside me.

  'I know you're a very busy woman, with a lot to do,' comes Luke Brandon's voice, and my head jerks up in shock. There he is, leaning out of the taxi window, his dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. 'But if you had the odd half-hour to spare – you wouldn't be interested in doing a little shopping, would you?'

  This day is unreal. Completely and utterly unreal.

  I get into the taxi, put my clunky briefcase on the floor and shoot a nervous look at Luke as I sit down. I'm already slightly regretting this. What if he asks me a question about interest rates? What if he wants to talk about the Bundesbank or American growth prospects? But all he says is, 'Harrods, please,' to the driver.

  As we zoom off, I can't stop a smile coming to my face. This is so cool. I thought I was going to have to go home and be all miserable on my own – and instead, I'm on my way to Harrods, and someone else is paying. I mean, you can't get more perfect than that.

  As we drive along, I look out of the window at the crowded streets. Although it's March, there are still a few SALE signs in the shop windows left over from January, and I find myself peering at the displays, wondering if there are any bargains I might have missed. We pause outside a branch of Lloyds Bank. I look idly at the window, and at the queue of people inside, and hear myself saying, 'You know what? Banks should run January sales. Everyone else does.'

  There's silence and I look up, to see a look of amusement on Luke Brandon's face.

  'Banks?' he says.

  'Why not?' I say defensively. 'They could reduce their charges for a month or something. And so could building societies. Big posters in the windows, "Prices Slashed" . . .' I think for a moment. 'Or maybe they should have April sales, after the end of the tax year. Investment houses could do it, too. "Fifty per cent off a selected range of funds."'

  'A unit trust sale,' says Luke Brandon slowly. 'Reductions on all upfront charges.'

  'Exactly,' I say. 'Everyone's a sucker for a sale. Even rich people.'

  The taxi moves on again, and I gaze out at a woman in a gorgeous white coat, wondering where she got it. Maybe at Harrods. Maybe I should buy a white coat, too. I'll wear nothing but white, all winter. A snowy white coat and a white fur hat. People will start calling me the Girl in the White Coat.

  When I look back again, Luke's writing something down in a little notebook. He looks up and meets my eye for a moment, then says,

  'Rebecca, are you serious about leaving journalism?'

  'Oh,' I say vaguely. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about leaving journalism. 'I don't know. Maybe.'

  'And you really think banking would suit you better?'

  'Who knows?' I say, feeling a bit rattled at his tone. It's all right for him. He doesn't have to worry about his career – he's got his own multimillion-pound company. I've only got my own multimillion-pound overdraft. 'Elly Granger is leaving Investor's Weekly News,' I add. 'She's joining Wetherby's as a fund manager.'

  'I heard,' he says. 'But you're nothing like Elly Granger.'

  Really? This comment intrigues me. If I'm not like Elly, who am I like, then? Someone really cool like Kristin Scott Thomas, maybe.

  'You have imagination,' adds Luke. 'She doesn't.'

  Wow! Now I really am gobsmacked. Luke Brandon thinks I have imagination? Gosh. That's good, isn't it. That's quite flattering, really. You have imagination. Mmm, yes, I like that. Unless . . .

  Hang on. It's not some polite way of saying I'm stupid, is it? Or a liar? Like 'creative accounting'. Perhaps he's trying to say that none of my articles are accurate.

  Oh God, now I don't know whether to look pleased or not.

  To cover up my embarrassment, I look out of the window. We've stopped at a traffic light, and a very large lady in a pink velour jogging suit is trying to cross the road. She's holding several bags of shopping and a pug dog, and she keeps losing grasp of one or other of them and having to put something down. It's so frustrating, I almost want to leap out and help her. Then, suddenly, she loses her grasp of one of the bags, and drops it on the ground. It falls open – and three huge tubs of ice-cream come out of it and start rolling down the road.

  Don't laugh, I instruct myself. Be mature. Don't laugh. I clamp my lips together, but I can't stop a little giggle escaping.

  I glance at Luke, and his lips are clamped together, too.

  Then the woman starts chasing her ice-cream down the road, pug dog in tow, and that's it. I can't stop myself giggling. And when the pug dog reaches the ice cream before the lady, and starts trying to get the lid off with its teeth, I think I'm going to die laughing. I look over at Luke, and I can't believe it. He's laughing helplessly too, wiping the tears from his eyes. God, I didn't think Luke Brandon ever laughed.

  'Oh God,' I manage at last. 'I know you shouldn't laugh at people. But I mean

  'That dog!' L
uke starts laughing again. 'That bloody dog!'

  'That outfit!' I give a little shudder as we start to move off again, past the pink woman. She's bending over the ice-cream, her huge pink bottom thrust up in the air. 'I'm sorry, but pink velour jogging suits should be banned from this planet.'

  'I couldn't agree more,' says Luke, nodding seriously. 'Pink velour jogging suits are hereby banned. Along with cravats.'

  'And Y-fronts,' I say without thinking – then blush pink. How could I mention Y-fronts in front of Luke Brandon? 'And toffee-flavoured popcorn,' I quickly add.

  'Right,' says Luke. 'So we're banning pink velour jogging suits, cravats, Y-fronts, toffee-flavoured popcorn . . .'

  'And punters with no change,' comes the taxi driver's voice from the front.

  'Fair enough,' says Luke, giving a little shrug. 'Punters with no change.'

  'And punters who vomit. They're the worst.'

  'OK . . .'

  'And punters who don't know where the fuck they're going.'

  Luke and I exchange glances and I begin to giggle again.

  'And punters who don't speak the bloody language. Drive you crazy.'

  'Right,' says Luke. 'So . . . most punters, in fact.'

  'Don't get me wrong,' says the taxi driver. 'I've got nothing against foreigners . . .' He pulls up outside Harrods. 'Here we are. Going shopping, are you?'

  'That's right,' says Luke, getting out his wallet.

  'So – what're you after?'

  I look at Luke expectantly. He hasn't told me what we're here to buy. Clothes? A new aftershave? Will I have to keep smelling his cheek? (I wouldn't mind that, actually.) Furniture? Something dull like a new desk?

  'Luggage,' he says, and hands a tenner to the driver. 'Keep the change.'

  Luggage! Suitcases and holdalls and stuff like that. As I wander round the department, looking at Louis Vuitton suitcases and calfskin bags, I'm quite thrown. Quite shocked by myself. Luggage. Why on earth have I never considered luggage before?

  I should explain. For years now, I've kind of operated under an informal shopping cycle. A bit like a farmer's crop rotation system. Except, instead of wheat–maize–barley–fallow, mine pretty much goes clothes–makeup–shoes–clothes. (I don't usually bother with fallow.) Shopping is actually very similar to farming a field. You can't keep buying the same thing – you have to have a bit of variety. Otherwise you get bored and stop enjoying yourself.