She’s avoiding the subject. What’s going on?
“Have you got an interview?” I say, in a sudden flash of genius. She looks at me, flushes, then pulls a sheet of transparencies out of the trolley.
“Circus acts,” she says. “People juggling. Is that what you wanted?”
“Elly! Have you got an interview? Tell me!”
There’s silence for a while. Elly stares down at the sheet, then looks up.
“Yes,” she says, and bites her lip. “But—”
“That’s fantastic!” I exclaim, and a couple of smooth-looking girls in the corner look up. “Who for?” I say more quietly. “It’s not Cosmo, is it?”
We’re interrupted by Paul, who comes over with a coffee and puts it in front of Elly.
“Swimmers coming up,” he says, then grins and walks off.
“Who’s it for?” I repeat. Elly applies for so many jobs, I lose track.
“It’s Wetherby’s,” she says, and a pink flush creeps over her face.
“Wetherby’s Investments?” She gives a very slight nod, and I frown in bemusement. Why is she applying to Wetherby’s Investments? “Have they got an in-house magazine or something?”
“I’m not applying to be a journalist,” she says in a low voice. “I’m applying to be a fund manager.”
“What?” I say, appalled.
I know friends should be supportive of each other’s life decisions and all that. But I’m sorry, a fund manager?
“I probably won’t even get it,” she says, and looks away. “It’s no big deal.”
“But …”
I’m speechless. How can Elly even be thinking of becoming a fund manager? Fund managers aren’t real people. They’re the characters we laugh at on press trips.
“It’s just an idea,” she says defensively. “Maybe I want to show Carol I can do something else. You know?”
“So it’s like … a bargaining tool?” I hazard.
“Yes,” she says, and gives a little shrug. “That’s it. A bargaining tool.”
But she doesn’t sound exactly convinced—and she’s not nearly as chatty as usual during the rest of the afternoon. What’s happened to her? I’m still puzzling over it as I make my way home from Image Store. I walk down to High Street Kensington, cross over the road, and hesitate in front of Marks and Spencer.
The tube is to my right. The shops are to my left.
I must ignore the shops. I must practice frugality, go straight home, and plot my expenditure graph. If I need entertainment, I can watch some nice free television and perhaps make some inexpensive, nutritious soup.
But there’s nothing good on tonight, at least not until EastEnders. And I don’t want soup. I really feel as if I need something to cheer me up. And besides—my mind’s working fast—I’ll be giving it all up tomorrow, won’t I? It’s like the beginning of Lent. This is my Shopping Pancake Day. I need to cram it all in before the fast begins.
With a surge of excitement I hurry toward the Barkers Centre. I won’t go mad, I promise myself. Just one little treat to see me through. I’ve already got my cardigan—so not clothes … and I bought some new kitten heels the other day—so not that … although there are some nice Prada-type shoes in Hobbs … Hmm. I’m not sure.
I arrive at the cosmetics department of Barkers and suddenly I know. Makeup! That’s what I need. A new mascara, and maybe a new lipstick. Happily I start to wander around the bright, heady room, dodging sprays of perfume and painting lipsticks onto the back of my hand. I want a really pale lipstick, I decide. Sort of nudey beige/pink, and a lip liner to go with it …
At the Clarins counter, my attention is grabbed by a big promotional sign.
BUY TWO SKIN-CARE PRODUCTS, AND RECEIVE FREE BEAUTY BAG, CONTAINING TRIAL-SIZE CLEANSER, TONER, AND MOISTURIZER, AUTUMN BLAZE LIPSTICK, EXTRA STRENGTH MASCARA AND SAMPLE-SIZE EAU DYNAMISANTE. STOCKS LIMITED SO HURRY.
But this is fantastic! Do you know how much Clarins lipstick usually costs? And here they are, giving it away! Excitedly I start rooting through all the skin-care products, trying to decide which two to buy. How about some neck cream? I’ve never used that before. And some of this Revitalizing Moisturizer. And then I’ll get a free lipstick! It’s a complete bargain.
“Hi,” I say to the woman in the white uniform. “I’d like the Neck Cream and the Revitalizing Moisturizer. And the beauty bag,” I add, suddenly petrified that I might be too late; that the limited stocks might have run out.
But they haven’t! Thank God. As my VISA card’s processing, the woman hands me my shiny red beauty bag (which I have to admit is a bit smaller than I was expecting) and I excitedly open it up. And there, sure enough, is my free lipstick!
It’s a kind of browny-red color. A bit weird, actually. But if I mix it up a bit with some of my others and add a bit of lip gloss, it’ll look really good.
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I open the door to the flat and Suze comes rushing up, like a puppy.
“What did you get?” she cries.
“Don’t look!” I cry back. “You’re not allowed to look! It’s your present.”
“My present!” Suze gets overexcited about birthdays. Well, to be honest, so do I.
I hurry into my bedroom and hide the Benetton bag in the wardrobe. Then I unpack all the rest of my shopping and get out my little silver notebook to itemize my purchases. David E. Barton says this should be done straight away, before items can be forgotten.
“D’you want a drink?” comes Suze’s voice through the door.
“Yes, please!” I shout back, writing in my book, and a moment later she comes in with a glass of wine.
“EastEnders in a minute,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say absently, and keep on writing. I’m following the rules of the book exactly, taking out all my receipts and writing them all down, and I’m feeling really pleased with myself. It just shows, as David E. Barton says, that with a bit of application, anyone can gain control of their finances.
Come to think of it, I’ve bought quite a lot of moisturizer today, haven’t I? To be honest, when I was at the Clarins counter, buying my Revitalizing Moisturizer, I forgot about all those pots I’d bought at Boots. Still, never mind. You always need moisturizer. It’s a staple, like bread and milk, and David E. Barton says you should never scrimp on staples. And apart from that, I don’t think I’ve done too badly. Of course I haven’t added it all up yet, but …
OK. So here is my final and complete list:
I stare at this figure in utter shock.
No, I’m sorry, that just can’t be right. It can’t be right. I can’t have spent over £170 in one day.
I mean, it isn’t even the weekend. I’ve been at work. I wouldn’t have had time to spend that much. There has to be something wrong somewhere. Maybe I haven’t added it up right. Or maybe I’ve entered something twice.
My eye runs more carefully down the list and suddenly stops in triumph. “Two cardigans.” I knew it! I only bought …
Oh yes. I did buy two, didn’t I? Blast. Oh, this is too depressing. I’m going to go and watch EastEnders.
OCTAGON flair … style … vision
FINANCIAL SERVICES DEPARTMENT
8TH FLOOR TOWER HOUSE
LONDON ROAD WINCHESTER S0 44 3DR
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood Charge Card Number 7854 4567
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your check for £43.00, received today.
Unfortunately, the check is unsigned. No doubt just an oversight on your part. I am therefore returning it to you and request that you sign it and return to us.
As you are no doubt aware, this payment is already late by eight days.
I look forward to receiving your signed check.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
• ENDWICH BANK �
�
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your answer-machine message of Sunday 4 March.
I am sorry to hear that your dog has died.
Nevertheless, I must insist that you make contact with myself or my assistant, Erica Parnell, within the next few days, in order to discuss your situation.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
• ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •
Six
OK, I THINK FIRMLY the next day. The thing is not to get freaked out by how much I happened to spend yesterday. It’s water under the bridge. The point is, today is the beginning of my new frugal life. From now on, I’m just going to spend absolutely nothing. David E. Barton says you should aim to cut your expenditure by half in the first week, but I reckon I can do much better than that. I mean, not wanting to be rude, but these self-help books are always for people with absolutely zero self-control, aren’t they? And I gave up smoking easily enough. (Except socially, but that doesn’t count.)
I feel quite exhilarated as I make myself a cheese sandwich and wrap it up in tinfoil. I’ve already saved a couple of quid, just by doing that! I haven’t got a flask (must buy one at the weekend), so I can’t take in coffee, but there’s a bottle of Peach Herbal Blast in the fridge so I decide I’ll take that instead. It’ll be healthier, too.
In fact, it makes you wonder why people buy shop-made sandwiches at all. Look how cheap and easy it is to make your own. And it’s the same with curries. David E. Barton says instead of forking out for expensive takeaway meals you should learn how to make your own curries and stir-fries, for a fraction of the cost. So that’s what I’m going to do this weekend, after I’ve been to a museum or maybe just walked along the river, enjoying the scenery.
As I walk along to the tube I feel pure and refreshed. Stern, almost. Look at all these people on the street, scurrying around, thinking about nothing but money. Money, money, money. It’s an obsession. But once you relinquish money altogether, it ceases to have any relevance. Already I feel I’m in a completely different mindset. Less materialistic, more philosophical. More spiritual. As David E. Barton says, we all fail to appreciate each day just how much we already possess. Light, air, freedom, the companionship of friends … I mean, these are the things that matter, aren’t they?
It’s almost frightening, the transformation that’s already occurred within me. For example, I walk past the magazine kiosk at the tube station and idly glance over, but I don’t feel the slightest desire to buy any of the magazines. Magazines are irrelevant in my new life. (Plus I’ve already read most of them.)
So I get on the tube feeling serene and impervious, like a Buddhist monk. When I get off the tube at the other end, I walk straight past the discount shoe shop without even looking, and straight past Lucio’s, too. No cappuccino today. No muffin. No spending at all—just straight to the office.
It’s quite an easy time of the month for Successful Saving. We’ve only just put the latest issue of the magazine to bed, which basically means we can laze around for a few days doing nothing, before getting our acts together for the next issue. Of course, we’re meant to be starting on research for next month’s article. In fact, I’m supposed to be making phone calls to a list of stockbrokers today, asking for their investment tips for the next six months. But I already know what they’re all going to say. Jon Burrins will go on about the problems with e-commerce stocks, George Steadman will enthuse about some tiny biotechnology company, and Steve Fox will tell me how he wants to get out of the stockbroking game and start an organic farm.
Somehow the whole morning goes by and I haven’t done anything, just changed the screen saver on my computer to three yellow fish and an octopus, and written out an expense claim form. To be honest, I can’t really concentrate on proper work. I suppose I’m too exhilarated by my new pure self. I keep trying to work out how much I’ll have saved by the end of the month and what I’ll be able to afford in Jigsaw.
At lunchtime I take out my sandwich wrapped in foil—and for the first time that day, I feel a bit depressed. The bread’s gone all soggy, and some pickle’s leaked out onto the foil, and it really doesn’t look very appetizing at all. What I crave at that moment is Pret à Manger walnut bread and a chocolate brownie.
Don’t think about it, I instruct myself firmly. Think how much money you’re saving. So somehow I force myself to eat my soggy effort, and swig down some Peach Herbal Blast. When I’ve finished, I throw away my foil, screw the top back on the Peach Herbal Blast bottle, and put it in our tiny office fridge. And that’s about … five minutes of my lunch break gone.
So what am I supposed to do next? Where am I supposed to go?
I slump miserably at my desk. God, this frugality is hard going. I leaf dispiritedly through a few folders … then raise my head and stare out of the window, at all the busy Oxford Street shoppers clutching carrier bags. I want to get out there so desperately, I’m actually leaning forward in my chair, like a plant toward the light. I’m craving the bright lights and warm air, the racks of merchandise, even the bleep of the cash registers. But I can’t go. This morning I told myself that I wouldn’t go near the shops all day. I promised myself—and I can’t break my own promise.
Then a brilliant thought occurs to me. I need to get a curry recipe for my homemade takeaway, don’t I? David E. Barton says recipe books are a waste of money. He says you should use the recipes printed on the sides of food packets, or take books out of the library. But I’ve got an even better idea. I’ll go into Smith’s and copy out a curry recipe to make on Saturday night. That way, I can go into a shop, but I don’t need to spend any money. Already I’m scrambling to my feet, reaching for my coat. Shops, here I come!
As I walk into Smith’s I feel my whole body expand in relief. There’s a thrill about walking into a shop—any shop—which you can’t beat. It’s partly the anticipation, partly the buzzy, welcoming atmosphere, partly just the lovely newness of everything. Shiny new magazines, shiny new pencils, shiny new protractors. Not that I’ve needed a protractor since I was eleven—but don’t they look nice, all clean and unscratched in their packets? There’s a new range of leopard-print stationery that I haven’t seen before, and for a moment I’m almost tempted to linger. But instead I force myself to stride on past, down to the back of the shop where the books are stacked.
There’s a whole array of Indian recipe books, and I pick up one at random, flicking over the pages and wondering what sort of recipe I should go for. I hadn’t realized quite how complicated this Indian cookery is. Perhaps I should write down a couple, to be on the safe side.
I look around cautiously and take out my notebook and pen. I’m a bit wary, because I know Smith’s doesn’t like you copying down stuff out of their books. The reason I know this is because Suze once got asked to leave the Smith’s in Victoria. She was copying out a page of the street atlas, because she’d forgotten hers—and they told her she had to either buy it or leave. (Which doesn’t make any sense, because they let you read the magazines for free, don’t they?)
So anyway, when I’m sure no one’s looking, I start copying out the recipe for “Tiger Prawn Biriani.” I’m halfway through the list of spices when a girl in WHSmith uniform comes round the corner, so I quickly close the book and walk off a little, pretending I’m browsing. When I think I’m safe, I open it again—but before I can write anything down, an old woman in a blue coat says loudly, “Is that any good, dear?”
“What?” I say.
“The book!” She gestures to the recipe book with her umbrella. “I need a present for my daughter-in-law, and she comes from India. So I thought I’d get a nice Indian recipe book. Is that a good one, would you say?”
�
��I’m afraid I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Oh,” she says, and starts to wander off. And I ought to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business—but I just can’t leave it there, I have to clear my throat and say, “Excuse me—but doesn’t she have lots of Indian recipes already?”
“Who, dear?” says the woman, turning round.
“Your daughter-in-law!” Already I’m regretting this. “If she’s Indian, doesn’t she already know how to cook Indian food?”
“Oh,” says the old woman. She seems completely flummoxed. “Well, what should I get, then?”
Oh God.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe a book on … on something else?”
“That’s a good idea!” she says brightly, and comes toward me. “You show me, dear.”
“Well,” I say, looking helplessly around the racks of books. “What’s she interested in? Does she … have any particular hobby?”
“She likes the fresh air,” says the woman thoughtfully. “Walking in the countryside.”
“Perfect!” I say in relief. “Why not try the travel section for a walking book?”
I point the woman in the right direction, then hurry off to do my copying. I reach the CD and video section, which is always quite empty, and hide behind a rack of Teletubbies videos. I glance around and check no one’s about, then open the book again. Okay, “Tiger Prawn Biriani” … I start copying again, and I’ve just got to the end of the list of spices, when a stern voice says in my ear, “Excuse me?”
I’m so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to my horror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round innocently. A man in a white shirt and a name badge is looking at me disapprovingly.
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