Confessions of a Shopaholic

No more folding jumpers! Thank God!

To my relief, this fitting room lark is a lot more fun. Ally Smith has really nice fitting rooms, with lots of space and individual cubicles, and my job is to stand at the entrance and check how many items people are taking in with them. It’s really interesting to see what people are trying on. One girl’s buying loads of stuff, and keeps saying how her boyfriend told her to go mad for her birthday, and he would pay.

Huh. Well, it’s all right for some. Still, never mind, at least I’m earning money. It’s eleven-thirty, which means I’ve earned. . £14.40 so far. Well, that’s not bad, is it? I could get some nice makeup for that.

Except that I’m not going to waste this money on makeup. Of course not — I mean, that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m going to be really sensible. What I’m going to do is buy the zebra-print jeans — just because they’re a one-off and it would be a crime not to — and then put all the rest toward my bank balance. I just can’t wait to put them on. I get a break at two-thirty, so what I’ll do is nip to the reduced rack and take them to the staff room, just to make sure they fit, and. .

Suddenly my face freezes. Hang on.

Hang on a moment. What’s that girl holding over her arm? She’s holding my zebra-print jeans! She’s coming toward the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they’re mine! I saw them first!

I’m almost giddy with panic. I mean, a normal pair of jeans, I wouldn’t bother about. But these are unique. They’re meant for me. I’ve mentally reorganized my entire wardrobe around them, and have already planned to wear them at least three times next week. I can’t lose them. Not now.

“Hi!” she says brightly as she approaches.

“Hi,” I gulp, trying to stay calm. “Ahm. . how many items have you got?”

“Four,” she says, showing me the hangers. Behind me are tokens hanging on the wall, marked One, Two, Three, and Four. The girl’s waiting for me to give her a token marked Four and let her in. But I can’t.

I physically cannot let her go in there with my jeans.

“Actually,” I hear myself saying, “you’re only allowed three items.”

“Really?” she says in surprise. “But. .” She gestures to the tokens.

“I know,” I say. “But they’ve just changed the rules. Sorry about that.” And I flash her a quick smile.

“Oh, OK,” says the girl. “Well, I’ll leave out—”

“These,” I say, and grab the zebra-print jeans.

“No,” she says. “Actually, I think I’ll—”

“We have to take the top item,” I explain hurriedly. “Sorry about that.”

Thank God for bossy shop assistants and stupid pointless rules. People are so used to them that this girl doesn’t even question me. She just rolls her eyes, grabs the Three token, and pushes her way past into the fitting room, leaving me holding the precious jeans.

OK, now what? From inside the girl’s cubicle, I can hear zips being undone and hangers being clattered. She won’t take long to try on those three things. And then she’ll be out, wanting the zebra-print jeans. Oh God. What can I do? For a few moments I’m frozen with indecision. Then the sound of a cubicle curtain being rattled back jolts me into action. It’s not her — but it could have been. Quickly I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again, a bright smile on my face.

Please let the girl find something else she likes, I pray feverishly. Please let her forget all about the jeans. Maybe she’s not even that keen on them. Maybe she picked them up on impulse. She didn’t really look like a jeans person to me.

A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.

“All right?” she says. “Coping, are you?”

“I’m doing fine,” I say. “Really enjoying it.”

“I’m just rostering in breaks,” she says. “If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.”

“Fine,” I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I’m thinking Three? I’ll be starving!

“Good,” she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says,

“Hi. Can I have those jeans now?”

It’s the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she Houdini?

“Hi!” I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. “Any good? That black skirt’s really nice. I think it would really suit you. The way the splits go at the—” 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">