Confessions of a Shopaholic

“Yes, please,” I beam, and relax back in my chair. You see what I mean? It’s so nice here. And I’m being paid to sit in this chair, doing nothing at all.

A few moments later, Elly appears with Paul, and I look at her in surprise. She’s looking really smart, in an aubergine-colored suit and high heels.

“So it’s swimmers, boats, and European images,” says Paul to her.

“That’s it,” says Elly, and sinks into the chair beside me.

“Let me guess,” I say. “Something about floating currencies.”

“Very good,” says Elly. “Actually, it’s ‘Europe: Sink or Swim’?” She says it in an incredibly dramatic voice, and Paul and I both start giggling. When he’s walked away, I look her up and down.

“So how come you’re so smart?”

“I always look smart,” she parries. “You know that.” Paul’s already wheeling trolley-loads of transparencies toward us and she looks over at them. “Are these yours or mine?’

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. . 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">