Confessions of a Shopaholic

When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.

“Becky! What a surprise!”

Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.

Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.

“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”

“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”

“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”

“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”

“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”

“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”

A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wearing her floral apron.

“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”

Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.

“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”

“Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awestricken nod. “Your job.”

Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not — but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high powered and modest.

Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.

“Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”

“Of course,” breathes Janice.

“You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say anything, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.

“So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”

This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up — and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.

“It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”

For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.

“Lovely,” I say. “And two bedrooms!”

Why can’t I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?

“He wanted two bedrooms,” says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.

I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?

“Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.

“I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”

Aarrgh!

“I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was asking all about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom. Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.

Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">